a fool of myself

The hour empties out.

The book tires me, and I close it.

I look, without looking, out the window.

My thoughts spy on me.

I think I'm not thinking.

Someone, on the other side, opens a door.

Perhaps, behind that door,

there is no other side.

Footsteps in the hall.

Nobody's footsteps : it is only the air

finding its way.

We never know

if we're entering or leaving.

...

by Octavio Paz