nor any other thing, unless it does.
And neither is it yellow, unless it is
and, even then, who’s to say?
And if you do not know me, or if you do,
but you do not understand what I say,
then do not wait for mention of Octavio for example,
or Italo, or other men similarly concerned with these concerns.
Because in the moment of your so considering-
“I think I’ll just read a bit more, wait and see if he mentions Calvino. Or maybe Gertrude even because she had a confusing thing about flowers.”
-my point has been lost. Or found.
But in both cases it has become a different one.
Except for the fact that through this picture-window
of the Water Tower Hotel
here on the coast of Uruguay,
the yellow blossom, unmindful of language, argument or theory,
does not break or bend, nor any other thing,
unless it does.
And it doesn’t.
Because I alone, in this moment, can see it.
(I send you fond salutations through time
it is now July 22, 1996.)