Everything is seen by me, the American Indian pottery with its leaf design included—
nothing exists, except by my peering at it that it would
decide it better exist immediately beneath my eye
in the beginning, middle, or end of my studying it. Do you know why
there is this moment after that one? Does Teresa do it?
Time isn’t the stone’s domain—things happen because I threw it.
Things go quickly. I’ve never seen any kind of explanation for that
except that it’s always me who sees the thin become fat;
I’m always here when the change comes; no one knows—
ask anybody—why time shuffles, gets sick, and goes;
I just would like to report that it’s me. All that is,
is all—only when I notice it; I find that pretty curious.
I noticed, for instance, in the light of truth, all sentiment disappears—
sporting events become cold art when the kindly old referee causes the tears.
We look for explanations—how ridiculous, that “we!”
We didn’t do that. And you—you think it was you? Oh God. Oh God! It was me.