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He said: who among us hasn’t had the authorities
The moment you changed from the blossom
bust in your door in the middle of the night? One knock
of the desire into a person scarred
One door. Every exit an exile. Every entrance the garden
with herself, I couldn’t see. Something
of incarceration, the document without the signature
about the eye, something about the body and mind
One door. One knock. Every light is Paris or
matter and art. So I stood as far away as I could
white phosphorous from the war. Every water
possible from the painting and when the illusion
is Venice or a branch of the Styx
was complete and I gradually came nearer
separating Slovenia from Croatia
suddenly what had been a hand or a red
Russians from Germans from whatever empires
ribbon dissolved into a weather of brushstrokes
This was how we were trained
I thought I could catch the moment
how to be with the world and not jump out of our skin
the change took place, but it was as illusive
dervish dances of identity and destiny
as the moment between sleeping and waking
But of course you Americans don’t know this.
This is how I looked for you.
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