darkness. I strewed, I strove, I swelled all night.
The truck sheared through the Night.
A Hotel
(after Oscar Niemeyer)
I will take my suitcase into a hotel and
Become a voice
By studying stillness and curtains
I will take my stillness into a hotel
Careening, not flowing, through
Cities become his voice
Into a hotel I will take my city
And roads
And the entire moving skin of history
Utopia is so emotional.
I’m speaking of the pure sexual curves
Of utopia, the rotation
Of its shadows against the blundering
In civitas. History does not respond
To this project – History, who has disappeared into
Architecture and into the
Generosity of the dead. This states
The big problem of poetry. Who could
Speak for the buildings, for the future of the dead
The dead who are implicated in all
I can say? On this very beautiful surface
Where I want to live
I play with my friends
Like they do down there.
I don’t understand what I adore.
I think of my body in the night
And remember my grandparents. With
Blood running through my wrists I represent
This. I believe my critique of devastation
Began with delight. Now what surprises me
Are the folds in political desire
Their fragile nobility, Sundays of
Rain. Listening to music, things pass.
I cry softly thinking of friendships then
Begin again to invent the line of
My life amidst utopia. Probably
This is the centre – the worn-out house, walls
Humming the repose of systems, the
Modest light, but I wanted an urgent
Line to begin the future, something like you,
What will you do with your legs and your heart?
Some think only of pleasure in their projects.
I am one of those people
Or so desire. I needed to make a living
So provoked astonishment. What I said
Is already gone, locked in
Migration. Sometimes we make things that seem
To have will – yet the beautiful life of
The house is each day more fragile. We suffer
And laugh and swim. We go
Daily to the botanical gardens to witness
Complication. Each plant becomes what we
Love in its other language as we rest
Near the privacy of women. I wait patiently with this voice
At this late hour, in our rudimentary
Lodgings, in our migrations, and the future
Is terrible and is a play
Of liberty. Work that ignores the night
Is not my work. I’ll solicit nothing
But ornament, that spacious edifice –
Kinds of ornament are change
Because it will change anyway
Beside the privacy of women
When I’m with them I forget
The simplest fact
Of loneliness which is not regret
I will take my privacy
Into its hotel.
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