If I speak for the dead, I must leave



this animal of my body,







I must write the same poem over and over,



for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.







If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge



of myself, I must live as a blind man







who runs through rooms without



touching the furniture.







Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking “What year is it?”



I can dance in my sleep and laugh







in front of the mirror.



Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,







I will praise your madness, and



in a language not mine, speak







of music that wakes us, music



in which we move. For whatever I say







is a kind of petition, and the darkest



days must I praise.





