Rumor of Cortez

To make this for you, sweet seer,

24 To make this for you, sweet seer, I say cold are the great cold walls of your temples and your cold cities, and they burst out laughing. I say mornings fill with migrant birds flowing just above the waves, the tropics in their feathers, the heron wheels and shrieks, circles the pond— such is the heart—one forgets the blinds of midnight. This is the body saved from the sea. Think instead of Paris in winter, a baker slips the first tray of croissants from the oven as street lamps flicker out along the Seine, and no one yet on the Boulevard des Capuccines. Lovers pull up heavy blankets, sleep—while in the village, a lone farmer brings in the hay, his chickens dusted with snow. Winter sky, roofs and shutters, shrubs and picket fences flocked winter white. Winter. And something about madness. As for the sea, each shell is a leftover soul, frozen, hard as amber, opaque as amber. That is what you hear— the sea lends a frieze, the waves a body— a sea bird, a sea woman, night, a piece of quartz. The beach buries itself under a foot of questions, the water tastes them inch by inch. There’s so much it is better not to know. If only sunflowers would grow inside my bedroom. Here’s another place I do not belong, much as I love your red dress, a good cry. ...