Monday, September 25, 2017

Waiting for the Title to Download Poem

If Madrid were only 055 kilometers away
I would more often visit such a rich
and beautiful city, several days
if not weeks per year. Or perhaps I’d stay
forever there, from now on, soon
after arrival. But we never know
what, if any of these things we dream may happen
and Madryt is actually 1,055 kilometers away
according to a broken, old stone mile-marker
at Rondo Kaponiera in the city of Poznan, Sunday morning.
Odessa, in contemporary Ukraine,
located 1,185 kilometers off, I am told
sits on the edge of the Black Sea, the inhospitable.
On the pavement outside the cafe, where I drink black coffee,
there is a dead bird, a wren, silent
and still, in the middle of the open courtyard,
as if the bird, feathers totally intact,
smooth to the touch, almost alive,
had suddenly dropped out of the sky, blue now,
where the airplanes fly in lower to land
on their approach. I see them often, hear them more.
How very loud they are.
August 20, 2017

No comments: