Classic Poem

for Octavio Paz

Little plant without electricity, my
heart is full of heat and dust and
what is left. Everywhere
I see what I love but all is restricted
to risk. I don't know if you are drawn,
captured or computer-generated. You
are like the mystery in the mirror
under the steam; the flower
in the flower; the gaze to where
I take myself... Your time is different
to the living and dying. To those
eternally born with the visceral smile
of mauve-petal gums. To those
that toss their heads like first shadows
to the ground after showing their faces
to the homeless moon. You find
your place with the arbitrary hands
that paste you to so many walls and
windows. With the advertisements,
missing persons posters, rock
bands and rooms vacant. Looking
at you I wonder if there is a world
of thought to support me. Who makes
a flower like this, stolen
by so many eyes?