Was about to happen in the railway station in Milan,
And it did, only his train had long since departed
And he was nearing Geneva when the bomb in Milan
Went off; or the story about the corpulent man,
Bewigged and wearing a judge's black robe
At La Coupole in Paris, over a cafe creme one morning
In 1977, who confided to the table at large
That news of Elvis Presley's death would be
Reported a week later-which happened,
Thus quickening interest in the corpulent man,
Who had disappeared in the meanwhile. But best of all
The traveler's tales were the ones he made up-
No, not made up, recalled-of cities
Where he had never been: sinister Berlin and seedy Sofia,
The carved portals of Vienna in its brilliant light,
Copenhagen during an unseasonably warm December,
Rio, Buenos Aires, Haifa, Hong Kong, Prague.
Bridget Fahrland
WHAT IS PAST
Although I have a constant shedding skin,
that flows inward and under the ocean
of all occurrence, matters will surface
though never quite complete. Hence, this nervous
condition, a shadow hinged to my feet,
will dissolve when matter and darkness meet.
Until such a time, my mere achievements
shall remain listed by sense not sequence.
