Don’t ask me about the whys or wherefores. Sometimes
there are pigeons that lose their way, pass through
a window, a curtain, a half-open
mirror, and nothing can prevent them spreading
through the soul’s transparent skies, just as water-
colour tints spread through a drop of water fallen
by chance. Don’t ask me about the whys
or wherefores of these mistakes, or even if they are
mistakes. How can we know whose hand it is
that opens mirrors, or whose hand spills
the water? Sometimes, life moves the wrong
piece, moves white instead of black, and then
there appears an eagle beneath the coat, a
word on the lips of a bee, a sad angel
sitting in a laundry. It is said
that this is something that happens to everyone, not just
to those who have wings. It’s comforting to know that.
It’s comforting to know that the mistake is a part
of us, that it sustains us like air or blood,
that the best encounters are actually
losses or muddles, chances that happen
three thousand feet up above forgotten
cities, there where words rise
like effervescent bubbles, and vanish.