Pool at the Antzo-mendi
The Antzo-mendi bar was where
we went when we were male adolescents.
The place was big
and had a pool table in the middle.
Wooden floors.
You heard Velvet Underground there,
Ziggy Stardust.

Trotsky for me was riding
high up on the back of the tractor.

Trotsky for me was taking a bath naked
with my little friend in the bathtub.

“It’s when he began wearing saffron robes
that I started crossing the street to avoid him,”

Orpheus knew at first to dream her,
sing her, pray her, while walking,

The right movement of the right foot
on dirt under tree-green grass underfoot,
the right movement of the left foot:

The bees came for their flowered blouses.
   “Oh! Oh! Can’t we wear them anyway?”
A visit with coffee, phrases and clauses—

What there was was a spherical rock in sunlight:
the full moon—its light on the strange but known
place to the east—over our side of the river.

There are still hammers, aren’t there,
somewhere, and bricks dried in brick kilns?

is coming from the hunters’ woods
with open hands, allowing

I have a partridge egg,
a gift from a man
who found it in some field straw