Self Portrait at Forty Nine
Even in a small town there is a sound arriving
through the silence like the breath of the tiger
hidden in every house. Asking how can something hidden
arrive, finally, to the place it’s always been?
Nevertheless there is no standing on reason
for that is the mystery I hear in the silence
before the house wakes, when the train sound slides
away and the bells of competing churches hollow
out to the thinnest reminder of passages time turned
away from to linger on a single guitar chord,
from this open window, now long gone, hours
later, as I lay in bed and when the entire neighborhood
is between breaths I hear this breath, this sound
arriving to the place it’s always been. Earlier today
my neighbor dug up with his bare hands four solid
concrete steps leading from the curb to the space
between our houses. As if there was an invisible
house there all along, and in absence of anything
but a passage all we can do is wait to see
who owns it, or who will come visiting
in the silence, or if the sound arriving is simply
the door we cannot yet see, not yet open.
Translations from the English 