I looked at it 

I looked at it for a long time 

The crooked path of the poet. 

I looked back with an intention 

Of reading the whiteness 

Between two words 

Between two rows 

Between two open-mouthed ditches. 

And over there, at the borderline near the road, 

Erika Yong was evoking memories: 

 

The old poet 

with his face full of lines, 

with iambs jumping in his hair like fleas, 

with all the revisions of his body 

unsaying him, 

 

walks to the podium. 

He is about to tell us 

how he came to this. 

I looked at him 

 

I looked at him for a long time 

Me 

Standing in front of the mirror.