Endoscopy

While the lens-man was busy Discovering my gastric landmarks, I looked up to a square sky through an oversized window, A colonial leftover. I squinted one of my eyes, pinched by no fewer than four gloves; Three on my head and one on my face, Covering half of my other eye. And the sky, though square in shape, looked spectacular When seen through warm tears. A heavy cloud sailed across and Vanished beyond the folded borders, then I saw A falcon in the blue frame, with a picture of my woman in its claws, And flew away, beating its wings triumphantly. I struggled to cry out in vain, for There was a snake in my throat. Bird droppings hit the window glass. The lens-man pulled out his one-eyed snake, and The gloves too released me and turned themselves Into white aprons with impish eyes. Before I walked out of the wretched room, I looked back and smiled, For the undertakers and their snake Didn't know I had stolen a poem from them Which opened for me a door of utterance of my love To my woman waiting outside, Whose gentleness no bird can spirit away.