At times I think the whole problem of life
is the problem of the hidden. Hidden,
we find our greatest joys, but partial ones,
and our despair chiefly when others hide from us.
Nothing leaves because it’s forbidden.
Hidden, it is still there
and all that we, the sensitive, fancy is aesthetically rare,
rare because it is hidden.
The poet simply found it there
when we thought it was gone.
You love my poems when others see
only pictures and calligraphy.
All that I hide
—in the green of the green greenery—
kisses you on the other side.