Misunderstanding

Standing over me
like some
heavy,
like some stone
eye,
like some common
sense,
is the question
of understanding.

I recall something -
or rather
do I call something?
After all,
I can't be certain
that I understand it
anymore
or ever understood it

in the first place -
that place
below it,
where I could be
the one
who held it aloft,
from a pit,
or could look up
into the belly
of it,
like some sage mechanic
of stone.

What exactly
I recall
is the dusty Paz
writing something
about how
poetry
says what language
refuses to say.

What sense
he was making
I can't exactly say.

Perhaps
he did not say it
after all - and
he said
all
there was for him
not to say -
but what I do recall

is having a sense,
of understanding it,
that day,
when a tear
imagined
itself
in my stone eye,
all because
I understood
someone else's
something
that made no sense to say.