The Sea and the Wind
is no light, and no quiet;
areas are smaller than others; a shout
heard at once,
makes a way in leisure to your ear,
a moment of leisure you hear it,
the sound of your voice.
not know clearly what it is,
in the lime dusk I write about it,
like time in a larger facsimile.
soon it will be louder,
there will be no further need for notes,
for an end to it, having multiplied as children
their boundaries of sensitive particles,
generations to languish in the respective arms of civilizations,
of age in China, ancient Greece, or the fabled Levant —
for getting up, going to the bathroom
back to bed, beset with Parisian dreams,
like islands amidst our American ones conceived in English,
them together irrigating the wide basin of simple life.
learn to deal with the local merchants,
become used to it;
outside and give themselves up to it,
series of events that rival an eclipse of the sun;
alone or with a guide far off in the night,
our monuments and tombs
reflect their obviously transitory state.
eat too much, too many cakes and too much candy;
have vacations, drive to the mountains and beaches
come back; travel through forests and over boulevards,
finally there are the continents, the oceans,
vastnesses of outer space
up the eyes’ foreign vision.
meantime they find flowers together, fences, stems,
exalted feelings, and ornate cornices;
are excursions to museums, pursuing
another down corridors, grapes, underbrush, memories,
Mozart concerti among the dominant points of interest,
gabled roof, a swooping hawk, the silver flash of a trout,
but nonetheless minor points,
always one’s generation at the elevator,
or elevation, to the combined hallucination and dream.
The History of the Invitation: New & Selected Poems 1963 - 2000