Proof
At any rate, I still have
this sheet of paper,
the pen
and the right hand that grasps it,
and the arm that joins it to the body
so that it will not be left--
so distant and far away--
like a strange, uprooted object--
five fingers moving,
crawling
on the floor,
like a filthy
animal pursued by the broom...
This is something,
I repeat,
if one keeps
in mind
that admirable proof of the existence of God
that consists of
the perfect functioning of my central nervous system
that transmits the orders sent out by my brain
to the far-off coasts of my extremities.
I think:
the afternoon is dying,
and my hand writes:
the afternoon
is dying.
Ergo God exists.
How easy it is, now,
to merge into an ordered and perfect world,
when one has at one's disposal a hand so worthy,
such tested material,
such a corpus delicti.
Hand, rub my head!
Hand, bring up
my chair. Unfasten
that girl's bra--
and you, the other one, don't be idle.
Grab
all the money, hand:
burn,
kill.
Therefore,
one proves once again,
as I was saying,
the natural and pre-existent order,
the harmonious beauty of things.
-- Angel Gonzalez, "Proof," reprinted in "Harsh World" and Other Poems, trans. Donald D. Walsh, Princeton University Press, 1977, pp. 113, 115.
