You walk inside yourself, and the tenuous, meandering reflection that
is not the last glance of your eyes before closing, nor the timid sun
that beats at your lids:
it is a secret stream, not of water but of pulse-beats: calls and answers
a thread of clarities among the tall grasses and the beasts of the mind
that crouch in the darkness.
You follow the murmur of your blood through the unknown territory
your eyes invent,
and you climb a stairway of glass and water, up to a terrace.
Made of the same intangible material as echoes and clanging,
the terrace, suspended in air, is a rectangle of light, a magnetic ring
that wraps around itself, rises, walks, and plants itself in the circus of
a lunar geyser, a stalk of steam, a foliage of sparks, a great tree that
lights up, goes out, lights up:
you are in the interior of the reflections, you are in the house of
you have closed your eyes, and you enter and leave from yourself to
yourself on a bridge of pulse-beats:
THE HEART IS AN EYE.