If we look with X-rays at the patients house,

we'll see the ghosts of books in silent shelves

or piled in the hall or on the nightstands and tables.

We'll also see a small notebook with drawings, lines
         and arrows

that diverge and intersect: they are voyages in death's

company. But death, despite its arrogant aide-memoir,

still hasn't won. The X-rays tell us time

is expanding and thinning like the tail of a comet

inside the house. Life still gives its best

fruits. And as the sea promised Jaufre Rudel 

the vision of love, so this house near the sea promises

its dweller the dream of the destroyed and constructed tower.

If we look, however, with X-rays inside of the man,

we'll see bones and shadows: ghosts of fiestas

and landscapes in motion as if viewed from an airplane

in tailspin. We'll see the eyes he saw, the lips

his fingers brushed, a body emerged

from a snowstorm. And we'll see the naked body,

just as he saw it, and the eyes and the lips he brushed,

and we'll know that there's no cure.