A Knocker
There are those who grow
gardens in their heads
paths lead from their hair
to sunny and white cities
it's easy for them to write
they close their eyes
immediately schools of images
stream down their foreheads
my imagination
is a piece of board
my sole instrument
is a wooden stick
I strike the board
it answer me
yes—yes
no—no
for others the green bell of a tree
the blue bell of water
I have a knocker
from unprotected gardens
I thump on the board
and it prompts me
with the moralists dry poem
yes—yes
no—no
