Walker, walker, do you hear us still? Comments

18

Walker, walker, do you hear us still?
Blue are the mountains, a folding screen,
two men strolling here with four centuries
between them, talking about the soul, how

difficult it is for it to leave the body alone
when it dies, that painstaking home with a stomach
and brains now ruined, ripe for demolition,
and the soul, where to?

You hear those two voices, French, Italian,
in the wind on the country road, you hear the beat
of your steps, the poem of doubt about
the existence of mind, let alone

when it dies.
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