V
Dear grandpa, it's autumn now in New York City
I've been to China and back
Probably killed and probably fathered
(Noone knows things for certain anymore).
What else
is
new?
Well, the old neighborhood
is
changing.
Sounds of Negro street musicians
Sounds of latin drummers
Rise to my window.
What do they know of birth and death in exile
Exultation at the start of a journey
And then the loneliness in foreign cities?
I think about you most when I'm at sea, grandpa.
There, certain things remind me of you
Like desperate seabirds far from shore
And stars long dead by which we navigate.
THE SURGEON'S SONG (The Rain in Indo(hina)
In Indochina in the raining season
I
You are in a jungle dressing station
Your tears are not without reason
But are
~ought
to
be
perspiration
As
you cry for the flesh that is severed
And you cry for the flesh that remains.
Now it
is
April, despite the killing,
So you whistle a song about the rain
Which was the lullaby of April sleep
"A friend of lovers, it can always keep
The secret of their meeting with its pitter pat ..."
Her eyes were rain colored
When you said goodbye
But now in Indochina
Where the rains are made
And lovers are wounded
You work at your trade.
