Foot swollen, I concentrate
on walking
the few steps between bath and bed.
Wobbly.
Tonight I'm hobbled,
need sleep,
its freedom from pain.
Fighting my body
to clearly think
is an exceptional
antithesis for me.
Before I drop off,
I remember Socrates pacing and
Pessoa's last days.
Who really knew you two, I wonder.
Do we know Socrates
after reading Aristophanes, Xenophon, Plato?
What if Xanthippe could speak?
I know we show ourselves
prismatically,
yet so many secrets remain.
When I contemplate Pessoa's Sephardic snobbery,
when again in English he places poems underfoot
Je n’nai jamais demande à le vie que de m’effleure
sans que je la sente passer
sans que je la sente passer
I think - But you didn't touch it, and you nearly missed us entirely
In the final moments before consciousness
slips away
I say aloud
remember
that your
latitude and longitude
is a mystery too
a beatitude
not a misfortune
here
halfway across the world
I never asked life to touch me
without feeling it go by
without feeling it go by
