|One day in that room, a small rat.
|Two days later, a snake.
|Who, seeing me enter,
|whipped the long stripe of his
|body under the bed,
|then curled like a docile house-pet.
|I don't know how either came or left.
|Later, the flashlight found nothing.
|For a year I watched
|as something -- terror? happiness? grief? --
|entered and then left my body.
|Not knowing how it came in,
|Not knowing how it went out.
|It hung where words could not reach it.
|It slept where light could not go.
|Its scent was neither snake nor rat,
|neither sensualist nor ascetic.
|There are openings in our lives
|of which we know nothing.
|the belled herds travel at will,
|long-legged and thirsty, covered with foreign dust.