...I live as I sleep
beneath the safe roof of my breathing
until the wind shakes up the walls,
forgets the tiles with my sight and falls still.

The House,
by Esther Jansma
Translated by Francis R. Jones
Poetry Wales
January 2007

LII i

Tuco began a note to Arlu.
He tried to remember the dream last night
that filled the air
as he tossed about.
He was still uncertain why
this tempest came upon him.
Perhaps bad wine,
but it seemed fine as he sat by the fire.

He'd read a poem with a line that threw him, "the wind...
forgets the tiles with my sight and falls still."
The phrase "the tiles with my sight" puzzled him.
There was something there, just out of reach,
he knew. He felt it.
But didn't fully feel it.

He was confused
and didn't know why.
He brooded on it for a time.
Then slipped the note into a book,
headed for the door
and a long, slow walk.

No thinking,
just seeing.
smelling,
hearing,
touching wind....

Ah, there it is,
the wind knows he has no tiles with his sight!
Reflections may glimmer, but the sight is straight,
unreflected.

Yet chasms can occur
anywhere
with anyone.

Ah, Arlu, what did you do
to make that right?

...By definition,
perfect wholeness has to include and embrace all aspects
of ourselves.

Dennis Genpo Merzel¹

LII ii

Returning home,
"I live as I sleep."
Tuco thought about that line in the poem.
It is true,
we don't ordinarily think about it,
but we do live
even when we "aren't home,"
when we sleep.
He ponders the wholeness in that.
And realizes he's overburdening himself.
Why?

What isn't being embraced?
Where did his mind go?
Aflutter,
a butterfly,
a bee.
Snap!

The wholeness arises
and crests on shoals.

However brief
it's a good place
to be imperfect.

Tuco smiles,
returns to the note
to Arlu.

"The construction of a model or of any theory for that matter
(or the writing of a novel, a short story or a play) consists of
snatching from the enormous and complex mass of facts called reality
a few simple, easily-managed key points which when put together
in some cunning way,
become for certain purposes
a substitute for reality itself."²

For certain purposes
a substitute for reality itself.
Seems open to error, Tuco thought. Then he began to write,
"Truth emerges more readily
from error
than from confusion."³

This will puzzle Arlu.
But that might be the right medicine.
Something to laugh over with Arlene.

What use is he
so far away
if not for giving deep laughter
however
he plays the part?

Perfect wholeness arises!
With no shoes,
wearing socks with holes.

Tuco wiggles his toes
in delight.