Living

ibeq

“I’ m glad you’ re positive.”
“I’ m glad you’ re positive,

too, though, of course, I wish
you weren’ t.” I wish you weren’ t

either is the response I expect,
and you say nothing.

And who can blame you?
Not me. I’ m not the one

who’ ll call you after dinner and a movie.
You’ re not the one who’ ll call me.

We both know we have
that — what? — that ultimate date

one night to come, one bright morning.
Who can blame us? Not the forks

and not the knives that carry on
and do the heavy lifting now.

The unrestricted sun
had split the day in two,
and now we went
on the edge of the afternoon
like a tableau of bent figures
made of faded blue duck.
We went like a wandering
and stinking, sweating brotherhood,
pull by pull between
the leafy cotton plants,
with the pathetic appearance of arriving
at the end of the furrow.
But we always arrived
in a rush to get there,
and the sole logic was
we had to move over
to the next furrow,
and no one could stop

Listen, you
who transformed your anguish
into healthy awareness,
put your voice
where your memory is.
You who swallowed
the afternoon dust,
defend everything you understand
with words.
You, if no one else,
will condemn with your tongue
the erosion each disappointment brings.

Time is crying upon the backs of lizards,
Through the white stone of the medieval city
They dash.
The houses that are walking up the stairs,
Flowers out of ruins,
Further into the fortress,
The sounds of a language registers
In our dreams.

Words which are my hat in the city,
Coming through the bamboo
The shadows of lost meaning —
Tilted light making slivers
Through the forest of the mambo
Behind the eyes.

is the six-chambered cylinder,
the spinnable heart,
how it clicks into place,

lonely but strong by design.
She understands its negative worth,
how it holds in the dark

and withstands what is held,
how it burns and smells
of smoke when left and left and left.

I
Under the makeshift arbor of leaves
a hot wind blowing smoke and laughter.
Music out of the renegade west,
too harsh and loud, many dark faces
moved among the sweating whites.

II
Wandering apart from the others,
I found an old Indian seated alone
on a bench in the flickering shade.

He was holding a dented bucket;
three crayfish, lifting themselves
from the muddy water, stirred
and scraped against the greasy metal.

I
In the moonlight,
in the heavy snow,
I was hunting along
the sunken road
and heard behind me
the quiet step
and smothered whimper
of something following...

Ah, tree of panic
I climbed
to escape the night,
as the furry body glided
beneath, lynx with
steady gaze, and began
the slow ascent.

II
And dark blue foxes
climbed beside me with
famished eyes that
glowed in the shadows;

The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine,
The wide reach of bay and the long sky line, —
O, I am sick for home!

The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air,
And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear, —
When will the good ship come?

The wretched stumps all charred and burned,
And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned, —
Why is the world so old?