The year of the hurricane 
(we are speaking) 
              bay roadway 

Which is actually a tree
you cannot recognize

Paul Guest, I am looking forward to your birthday
and the long chain of fitful celebrations
that will follow and be broken

In the daylight there were
small whimpers made by the African cat

An over-large pot of geraniums on the ledge
the curtains part
a view from Kandinsky’s window.

I am living in the Siberia 
of your rose 
there is a family of us 

Should the painful condition of irreversible paralysis
last longer than forever or at least until
your death by bowling ball or illegal lawn dart

are not comfortable beside mine. On the bus,
pulled forward by gentle inertia,
a hundred of us sway, or sigh, is that it,
what we do in the moment, in that air
that is too cool. Listen,
I want to say to you, dear heart,
imperfect flesh, blue eyes,
abused elbow and plaintive knees—
listen, I want to breathe in
the world that is falling apart.
I am too old to learn
your name in any language
other than this one. I am

One may wish to slaughter or to save the bull—but first one must master the cape. With the politics I differ; for the man I feel nothing but love. Without him I might never have been a poet. His esthetic discoveries were powerful enough to enable me to dispute with him to the death in an arena where the combat is eternal: the arena of poetry.

Juan Garcia

*

Water, with lidless stare,
Invites a cool surmise,
Holds there his curious eyes,