Oldsmobiles up and down the canals all night:
how they drive on water
is a mystery beautiful as it is absolute.
I ask the waiter
the origin of the automobiles riding
by the fishmonger's,
idling on the water's surface, and he is surprised
to see me linger
over a question that to him is obvious.
When I finish my coffee
the night-prowling cars have vanished,
but from my balcony
tonight, in the ornate and lovely corner
house, with envy
I will watch the slow procession of the cars
that are too heavy
to float. And yet they float, a formation
in tomorrow's papers, my generation's
tone, the tormented
air I am used to hearing in the daily speeches.
visits me so rarely that when it approaches
there is no time
to regret my lack of preparation
for its luminous
arrival, its liquid organization.
This life is formless
and I do not understand most of it:
why no children
gather in my cool garden when the heat
in Boulevard (Fall 1988, Vol. 3, Nos. 2/3)