My Trip

I am looking at a smallpox vaccination scar In a war movie on the arm Of a young actor. He has just swum Across a river somewhere in Normandy Into the waiting arms of his rejoicing comrades. Of course, the river’s in California, And the actor is dead now. Nevertheless, This is the first of many hotels this trip, And I find myself preferring wars To smut on the networks, Even as I find myself reading The Pisan Cantos for the umpteenth time Instead of the novel in my bag. The poet helps me to the question: Does anything remain of home at home? Next day is no way of knowing, And the day after is my favorite, A small museum really perfect And a good meal in the middle of it. As I’m leaving, I notice a donkey on a vase Biting the arm of a young girl, And outside on the steps A silver fish head glistens beside a bottlecap. Plenty remains. The work of poetry is trust, And under the aegis of trust Nothing could be more effortless. Hotels show movies. Walking around even tired I find my eyes find Numberless good things And my ears hear plenty of words Offered for nothing over the traffic noise As sharp as sparrows. A day and a day, more rivers crossing me. It really feels that way, I mean I have changed places with geography, And rivers and towns pass over me, Showing their scars, finding their friends. I like it best when poetry Gleams or shows its teeth to a girl Forever at just the right moment. I think I could turn and live underneath the animals. I could be a bottlecap. Going to the airport going home, I stop with my teacher, now my friend. He buys me a good breakfast, berries and hotcakes. We finish and, standing, I hear One policeman saying to another Over the newspaper in a yellow booth "Do you know this word regret, Eddie? What does it mean?" Plenty of words over the traffic noise, And nothing could be more effortless. Catching a glimpse of eternity, even a poor one, says it all.