by Halina Poswiatowska
they show me words
they say
the scent of roses can be found in a word
but all I find is paper paper and more paper neither fragrance
nor color
and I know that a spray of sparks
when workers are welding streetcar rails
while we stand around two ten-year-old boys and I
that spray of sparks
means light much more
than the word light
and when my friend paralyzed in a wheelchair
bites off a piece of bread I hand to him
the way he bends his head
the movement of his jaws
have more life in them
than the word life
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