Monday, July 18, 2011

"Ode to Jorge Louis Borges"

I read poetry last night.

Stuccoed homes in cinnamon shadows

Soft murmurs of a river flowing.

Oranges dropping wet, full, ripe.

Death creeping with each breath.

la Recoleta cemetery fading in mists.

Stars float above BBQ smoke.

Bolivar's hoof beats echo across alley ways.

I read great poetry last night.

Weeping, with each image.

Afraid of my failings.

Yearning to be better than I am.

Multicolored roofs, line streets of South American bohemia.

Evita's ghostly hand reaches from dirty walls.

Football fans cheer modern day gladiators.

While the hour of the dove finds its rest.

I read fantastic poetry last night.

I read till my eyes could not see white from black.

I read till my dead perched in tree branches outside my door.

Listening to my thoughts, my heart as they longed for more.

I read a poets work last night and I am better for it.

Yet poorer am I , for I feel my worth fade with each exhalation.

My lips parted, my tongue coated those parched instruments.

I let go of my fears, and was transported through portals of space.

Where my fear was matched by the grand paseo of the universe.

I read,

and I read.

I read

till I was reading

in my sleep.

In a one bedroom

shack, in the middle of the desert,

on a dead end street.


DS Baker

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