Second Ode to a Narcissus

I am a builder,
I forge castles out of grey sand,
wait anxiously for waves
to wash them away.
... I need the space.


I am an artist,
I dance on paper,
paint on stage,
write on canvas.
... I smell the music of colours
with my probing tongue.


I am a scientist,
I plough neurons,
search for falsehoods,
question answers.
... I am infinitely round.


I am a lover,
I define beauty,
understand roots,
drown the earth.
... I uncover flowers.


* * *

I am a child.


Winnipeg, June 1985

Ode To a Narcissus

I watch my hands,
They tell me stories.
How they danced with the pen,
Or ... other hands.
How they grasped door handles,
Touched and felt bodies,
...Burnt themselves.


I watch my feet.
Covered or bare
They're fun to observe,
They remind me of mud puddles,
Dirt, icy snow,
Sometimes even flowers,
Elevator floors ... gas pedals.


I watch my nosetip.
It talks of fresh and flesh odours.
Of mixtures of infinite parts,
yet each one so distinct.

I even watch my tongue.
Its spicy tastings,
Its snaky flow around broken teeth,
Its touching of another tongue
Intrigue me.

Come to think of it,
I cannot watch neither my eyes nor my ears,
(are they that important?)

Except of course, in a mirror.

* * *

But then
They would be laterally inverted, wouldn't they?

Winnipeg, April 1985