My exercise is to handle the strata
of thoughts and sayings
uttered before me,
of emotions felt before my time
like miner hunchbacked
in nocturnal toil
with torchlight and pickaxe
in quest of the golden calf.
T here are times
when thoughts recur,
I mumble and fumble …
like an assayer of diamonds
in the sunlight.
Words are a treasure trove for me.
On the goldsmith’s bench of my fantasy
I assay them.
With the hallmark of my craft
I stamp on them
the high grade in carats.
A fearful exercise,
a game that is not a game,
a joke that is not frivolous,
like the paso doble
at the corrida,
like the hopscotch
of life with death.
A burning pregnancy
that hatches
the holiness of life
in your hands.