Jared requested that I post this particular poem apropos of our discussion of opacity.
Tea-Time in the Gulag
This time, in bed with the gardens,
we’ll try to remember all the disturbances
that have been marshalled for the alleviation
of our political boredom. Once a kingdom,
Then a colony, now a republic under which we stand
and groan. Somewhere is a country
that is no country at all, but no airline flies there.
(The airlines are in cahoots with the past.)
Simple nonessential groupings of citizens:
We have empty couches inside our homes,
but you sleep in the street. Defend that,
Marco Polo, defender of the throng. Pretender to the throne.
I toast, “Here’s to the confusion of our enemies.”
You reply, “I don’t have any.” So
I go home and cry and smoke and stay up all night
wondering if I could possibly be as wrong as you are.
We’ll never sleep in the same bed again,
or long for food from our comfortable enclaves,
or make insane promises about the deeds to come.
I won’t be your secret for long, martyr.
My hair will grow out again, and I’ll stop
imitating your mysteries.