TRANSLATION
Food is a door you have to open
to get to the mind, but first
you must traverse the soft aisle
of the stable, the eyes of cattle
grazing you, the bins of grain ticking
like hearts, then the darker passage
where apples, onions, and potatoes
cure in their cool bins. Beyond them,
the room of sacks, coffee, sugar,
salt, and spoons. Here, you must let
the bowl come to mind, the cup,
and as you stand at a window
drinking, allow that the mind
takes light as the body takes
hot sips, then, yes only then,
does a notion appear, to which
some detail must attach—a color,
a texture, boat, barrow or gate.
It matters little what, only that
there is a what you have touched
in some other hour, that you know
its weight, temperature, how
light swelled or shunned it.
Object, we say, as if each
thing in the world could be
denied, which, of course,
it can unless we marry it
to significance in the warmed
space of the satiated, tea
in the fat brown mug,
allegation, bread torn
from the loaf, assertion,
and yes, why not, our Gods,
now tentative, now assured,
step out from hungers, thirsts,
and stand inside us at the window
as we begin to think we see.
