A Week Reading Latin Poets
By the sea
saddled with boredom and summer
I found the Latin poets with white tunics and sandals
dragging a harp across the sandy beaches of the Pacific;
with them, with the happiness of having them here saying
“Sicilian muses, let’s sing a little louder”
I regained my lost interest in verse
and joining the group
I walked for seven days in your streets, oh Lima.
Poem about the Love of Knowledge
When your heart is broken
and on your poor, sick head
the days crash down like quinces
it’s quite lovely
and quite agreeable
to wake on a given morning in bed
completely naked
sighing between the long arms
of knowledge.
In Rome
Once I watched the wrinkled faces of the muses
as they reflected in the waters of the Tiber.
—All has been said, all has been said, the
poor things repeated,
And I observed them from the Sant’Angelo bridge, smoking
a cigarette
until, before all of us
—muses, cats, neighbors—
a pale, young man fell hard from above
and, naturally, we all breathed a heavy sigh.
Later I flew through the heavens and returned
to my parents’ nest
where I write these lines and prosper
in the difficult art
of building nests and shelters.
But God willing
one day I might return and live in the hospice of Tiber Island,
perhaps until I rot under a maritime pine,
never mind if in silence,
recalling the lyric poets
stroking a cat’s back
watching the wrinkled faces of the muses
reflect in the waters of the Tiber.
The Beloved Disciple
I’m not quite in Patmos, but rather in front of
the Pacific
at the end of a breakwater, before the waves,
on a cool afternoon;
as I slept on your shoulder
I would like to sleep today
and moving fearlessly into the
abyss
return to your city.
But something is breaking
and falling apart
even though you put your hard hand on me saying
don’t fear
because you are the first and the
final
and I am the beloved
even if I collapse in the sand
like the cold waves.
Don’t think I forget
the foretold day
on which all those who are not in
the book
will end up in the fire
and the rest of the ships will leave.
But which days
will these be
if in my unassuming visions
with native birds
simple spirits and mist
I confuse swimmers with the dead
and I quietly inquire about eternity.
