A Knocker

There are those who grow

gardens in their heads

paths lead from their hair

to sunny and white cities

it's easy for them to write

they close their eyes

immediately schools of images

stream down their foreheads

my imagination

is a piece of board

my sole instrument

is a wooden stick

I strike the board

it answer me

yes—yes

no—no

for others the green bell of a tree

the blue bell of water

I have a knocker

from unprotected gardens

I thump on the board

and it prompts me

with the moralists dry poem

yes—yes

no—no