I do not see her.
She is with another man, a stranger perhaps,
licking his knees and holding
his
wrists.
He
is.
stroking her breasts, her mellow, livid
breasts. A bird flies overhead, giving vent
to its full day's mourning.
(Soon it will be morning)
Yes I have been waiting here since this afternoon, waiting,
just waiting.
I see no one, nothing, no tree, no bird, no breasts, no men
no fulfillment
no rocks ...
THREE MONGO LOID IDIOTS FROM SANTO DOMINGO ·
Three mongoloid idiots from Santo Domingo
With grapes on their foreheads and baskets
Of rye bread into the dawnlight go slouching for
Seagulls, their only mistake their trusting
Higher abstractions than themselves. Shadows
Disappear and when they do the most impervious
Personage scrawls his boyhood name on borrowed
Sand; the seashore quakes with potted laughter,
The quiet seeds bazoom, and in pineapple twilight
The crackpot kings march, their faces placid with
The strength of Elijah's skull's-eye breadth. But
As of now it's timeless grape of day time, and the
Village creeps crawl naked. Who will put the pagan
Ocean in the sun? Who will scribble sand-songs? Not
The crippled, but the gainly.
Jerome Nathanson
