Jacques Réda

The street I walk along I often see As if I'd long since left the moving surface Of the world for the endless other side that disperses Us all some day without return but free Of care. I apply myself so well to this fragile proceeding That very quickly my gaze ceases to be Part of the cloudy clump of hope and memory I'll have given my name to. But for this to succeed, A feeling of absolute happiness has to make Itself felt, as if from outside me, so much That at that moment the very street has a hunch That it, the entire city, and its uncertain space Have become one with the mobile but faithful pattern Of phrases written by our steps when we move about. I no longer know who's walking and marking out The ground, bit by bit, to the corner. My gaze then patterns Itself on tomorrow's unknown eyes, which will shine When from the roofs, posthumous and vague, mine glow, And my invisible trace on the asphalt below Might guide the élan of hardier passersby. Will they know what I sometimes suspect: what appears To be the distracted gaze with which we see The world is the world itself?—It sees and hears Itself through the thin transparency of our screens.

One of the objects I've treasured most in my life Is this letter scale which, long ago, you gave me. I was an active correspondent at the time, Even sending lots of letters overseas. While still enjoying the pleasure of going to the post, I now had another: assessing exactly, in advance, At my counter, the cost of packets and envelopes, To which, price list in hand, I stuck my stamps. I use it less these days, this quite simple device Graded with little marks up to a whole pound, For my mailings rarely still exceed the price Of an ordinary stamp. The tray of polished metal's now Covered with dust, without the slightest hint That the red pointer marking the weight on the front Has budged. But in the long run, one would, I think, Discern a difference and see how much the months Were worth in terms of dust, the seasons elapsed Since the previous weighing. But having been seized, Suddenly, just this morning, by a tremendous attack (Annual) of cleaning, from which nothing is released, I restored to the tray's slightly concave stainless steel, That ever so slightly distorted mirror, its polished shine. It reflected all of the sky, through which clouds reeled, And I could confirm that space does not weigh more than time.