in the Jardin des Plantes, Paris
From seeing the bars, his seeing is so exhausted
that it no longer holds anything anymore.
To him the world is bars, a hundred thousand
bars, and behind the bars, nothing.
The lithe swinging of that rhythmical easy stride
which circles down to the tiniest hub
is like a dance of energy around a point
in which a great will stands stunned and numb
Only at times the curtains of the pupil rise
without a sound...then a shape enters,
slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders
reaches the heart, and dies
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