I get on, nothing to contribute,
and stay happy according to the fire,
nothing to contribute, maze
of loose brick—in inclines
raking the form from those leaves,
unbuttoning the shirt for those leaves . . .
For the wall, the monument,
Bolivar shattered into rags
& sunlight; unity, “it is our
distinct pleasure . . .”
As the hands topple—affection—
I was, I became, I preferred the sweep
of the water to that fall, I preferred
the jets of pale marble—& the women
they’ve said to me, & the men
they’ve said to me, between
the sun’s wavering, the water, they say
and remain faceless and beyond my reach.
Copyright © 2011 Robert Fernandez
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.