by Alan Britt
The French poets: Bonnefoy, Dupin, and du Bouchet,
do you expect us to eat these billboards,
or comb our eyebrows with these metals
that drop from their hands?
Jorge Carrera Andrade astride a horse
of wind! Your nose
sniffs at the corners of these buildings.
In your right hand
you hold an angel of lead;
in your left
the body of Rafael Alberti.
How sorrowful the people of our country,
They stand inside mouths along the rainy streets.
The downtowns flowing with hair;
a woman walks with a bleach bottle
tied around her waist.
When I step outside the house, all I can say
is “the holy solitude is lost.” My feet
merge with gravel as I watch the blue evening
bend its neck and sink below the earth.
I stand in a vacant field
and lift up my arms. Its sands begin to move
beneath my feet . . .
This is where I will die,
here in this vacant field
beneath a starched handkerchief.
Alan Britt’s poems in this issue are from a manuscript he is putting together for his MA at John Hopkins. A poem of his will appear in the For Neruda/For Chile anthology. (Spring 1975)