After Robert Hass

What does this mean?

I do not mean to say these things.
I do not say these things.

They look at me and try to spoon the answer
out from under my eyelids,
from the gums of my teeth:
They find the kind of red
which does not describe
the curtain, or the bedspread.
A shade which is not explained
through poetic calculation.

This logic resists
the logic of falling things.
It climbs into the hidden
orifices of my face,
pressing into darknesses
I can’t find until
their gaze has been shut out.

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