nothing holds.
Futile and s e n s i t i v e
I'm capable of violent
and consuming i m p u l s e s
both good and bad
nobel and vile
but never of a sentiment that e n d u r e s
never of an emotion that continues
entering into the substance of my soul
Everything in me
tends to go on to become something else
My soul
is i m p a t i e n t with itself
as with a bothersome child
its r e s t l e s s n e s s keeps growing
and is forever the same
Everthing interests me but nothing h o l d s me
I attend to everything
d r e a m i n g all the while
I note the s l i g h t e s t facial movements
of the person I'm talking with
I record the s u b t l e s t inflections
of his utterances
but I hear without listening
I'm thinking of something else
and what I least catch in the conversation
is the s e n s e of what was said
by me or by him
And so I often r e p e a t to someone
what I've already repeated
or ask him again what he's already answered
But I'm able to describe
in four photographic words
the facial muscles he used to say what I don't recall
or the way he listened with his eyes
to the words I don't remember telling him
I'm two
and both keep their distance
Siamese twins that aren't a t t a c h e d
