HONESTY

In the month of May, when the sun turns, it strikes the house

on its western side. The sunsets grow longer. A ribbon,

almost golden, engraves the middle wall vertically. Men

find themselves on the brink of a deep revelation.

The small tables of a confectionary shop have been brought out on

the sidewalk.

The red lilies can be discerned behind the glass pane. On the tall

house

across the street the windows have been opened. The emptiness of a

room recently vacated can be seen.

And perhaps-who knows-

perhaps it is you who gives the order, even before night falls,

to light the green globes in the church courtyard,

for this is a time of difficult contraries.

Yes, you,

who have been authorized (by whom?) to put in the poem openly

the wooden horses, the keys of old lost valises,

and those rubber imitations of three or more frogs

so they may leap softly in the watered nonexistent garden.