This is what it is to dance ...

Do you see these poems
we're writing on the floor?

In and through the air
above the floor?

Do you see how our feet
chase each other like animals?

For a while we are polar bear and arctic fox,
then one thousand cranes flying in formation,
then two horses in an open field.

This is what it is
to be born, to live, and to die,
in the span of a few minutes.

This is what it is to dance.

What do you want?

Someone asked:

     What do you want
     from these images?

     What do you want
     from these things that you write?

     What do you want
     from these dances?

This is the same as asking:

     What do you want
     from your eyes?

     What do you want
     from your pen and your paper?

     What do you want
     from your body?

I want from my eyes that which lies in front of me in this world. I want from my pen and my paper that which lies in front of me in this other world. I want from my body that which does not lie in front of me either in this world or in this other world. I want to know: what am I? Not who. Not why. I want to know: what are we? And I have seen enough to know that with polish and with time, these mirrors will give me the answers.

Coming and Going

1.

Run to the bow when you leave, my dear friend, run to the bow. The stern is no place for you and, anyway, you will not find me there. Run to the bow, where the world and I are waiting.

2.

When I leave with the evening, do not despair, my dear friend. Do not linger in the sand. Turn around, as if no time has passed, and welcome me with the morning.

3.

The first to understand that the world is round, that coming and going are like two ends of the same string, was a man (was it a man?) watching his dear friend disappear over the horizon.

4.

Someone closed my window into the other world. Closed my window and drew the curtains. Only shadows present themselves now. Shadows dancing on the curtains covering my window into the other world.

5.

Can a second be stretched into a minute? A minute into the time between two shadows? The time between two shadows into the time between two evenings? The time between two evenings into the time between full moons? For one second a few minutes ago, I did not miss the moon. I did not wonder where it was. I wondered only what it would be like to become full, become new, and become full again.

6.

When one teacher leaves, another arrives. There is no delay. One is never without a teacher. Presence is such a teacher, but so is absence. Presence teaches you to be full, while absence teaches you to be empty. Fullness opens a window into the other world, while emptiness places a mirror in front of you.

All I ask ...

All I ask is that you do me this favor:
do not come any closer.

Retain that perfect distance
wherein I may discern your figure,
but not your features.

That perfect distance
wherein I can hear you,
but you cannot hear me.

Do me
this favor,
this small favor,
this simple favor,

and you and I may remain
as we are forever.

Come any closer,
and we may lose everything.

Symphony No. 7

The clouds formed
with the first movement,
darkened with the second,
and advanced in a line
with the third
and forth.

They followed
as I drove home,
as I opened the door,
as I slipped under the covers.

They hovered
as I closed my eyes,
as I played the notes again in my mind,
as I came to these questions:

Which is more of a man:
the one looking down from the top
or the one looking up from the bottom?

Who is this woman
in the music?

Who is the impostor:
the one standing next to her
or the one next to whom she stands?

With these,
I heard the first few drops
and then the rain came in waves
as everything that had accumulated
emptied itself into the streets.

We take that which is ...

We take that which is beautiful
to be true,
that which is beautiful,
but not true,
to be excusable,
that which is ugly
to be false,
that which is ugly,
but not false,
to be ordinary.

We take what we have for granted
and we take what we do not have ...

we take what we do not have.

Those few who give
are drained
and those many who take
are never satisfied.

What do we do, then?

We give
only to those who give
and we never take ...

we never take.

A Thousand Eyes

A thousand eyes come to rest
in arabesque pechée,
phalanges,
metatarsi,
tarsi,
tibia and fibula,
femur,
ascending
from crypts to spires,
stones from
Figueres and Vilafranca,
Lleida,
Montjuïc,
Garraf,
one on top of another.

Do they know they're the same:
the dancer and the mason,
the choreographer and the architect?

Which of them can understand
the thousand tears?

Which of us can still see the beauty
in something we hold so close?