He’s come to the beginning of the end
Of the poem, the moment when he turns
To place the first of its words on paper.

Never was there a time when I did not lead him,
when I did not feel his hand upon my shoulder.

Never was there a time I was not his eyes

 

It’s not enough to talk to plants
you also have to listen. And day after day
it’s the same petty complaints and trivial gossip:

One morning I awoke
to a dead pigeon on the roof
of the building next to mine,