FIVE POEMS
Banished Wonders
The American linden sways nonplussed by the storm,a bounce here, a shimmy there, just shaking like musicleft over from the night’s end wafting into the avenues before sleep.I remember once walking down Clinton Street, and singingthat line returning, And of coursethere was music, though it was me and my incessant remembering.And here now, what does one even offer?Darling Cockroaches of the Highest Order, hard underthingsof hard underworlds, I am utterly suspicious of advice.What is the world like out there? Are you singing in the tunnels?I should say nothing sometimes.I should say, Dearest purple spiderwort in the ditch’s mud, how did you do it?Such bravery, such softness, even with all that name calling and rage.No one wants to be a pretty thing all the time. But no one wants to bethe weed. Alone in Argentina at a cafe, I never felt like dancing, I screwedmy face up so it said nothing and no one and never. Borges was losinghis sight, and yet sometimes it is best to be invisible.What is it to be seen in the right way? As who you are? A flash of color,a blur in the crowd,something spectacular but untouchable.And now the world is gone. No more Buenos Aires or Santiago.No tango, no samba. No more pisco sours sweet and stickyand piercing the head’s stubborn brick.Mistral writes:
