Oh the end game of i
to have bounced from country to country
or danced among the silent letters of time
to have been part of Marseille, of Seoul, of Carlsbad
of Canada and of the Alps
to have returned at the time of tin terror
to this earthy, giving land
to Antigua, to Guatemala and to those places
where the Mayans met the Spanish and they mixed their blood,
to have sauntered through the mist and mystery of early morning Prague
to have survived this house of mirrors, this life
to have sought in vain, the always in the eyes of one woman
to have questioned old wisdom, new wisdom, this empty modern
to have seen things as they are
death, the clear morning, the forever sky and the tender blooms of spring
and to have seen the horror, the always deep end
except for that moment, the old lady in Kiev handing me a pen
a face that does not want you to forget it.
Oh the end game of i
perhaps no more, no less that u.
October, 2014
