At the water’s edge, in the evening twilight
when the world is spacious and quiet
my blood is an ocean
finding its shore
Far away, on an old phonograph
a haunting melody begins
a Chilean love-song, plaintiff and beautiful
And all along the wide avenues
festive street lamps are lit
as the sea deepens its blue
the foam a brilliant white
The sound of voices grows,
not urgent, but ambling and joyful
And from everywhere the masses gather
filling the public square
Retracing your footsteps
in the streets where you walked,
Infinitesimal being, drunk with
a new geography of self…
We arrive clutching little snippets of verse
in a wide and warm embrace
The poet of the perpetual cup
is one hundred years today
There is dancing and feasting in celebration
there are smiles, greetings, and intimate conversations
round tables and white tablecloths,
wine and song
And we the multitudes of
too many names have lost our shoes
slipped them off, like we slipped time
We are dust or sand
rain under rain,
and the pounding waves
dispense sea spray and starry echoes
July 6, 2005.