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
