Dead End

In the fall we heard horns of the ancient hunters
blare from under the arches The dowser
sat by the door
In front of Government House they burned kites Farther on
the statue was alone naked completely shivering on its pedestal
(the one that had endured so much to become a statue)
now totally forgotten secretly contemplated in the rock
a new amazing straddle that would draw
the hunters’ attention the butcher’s baker’s widow’s
disproving what he’d dreamed of the most: his unblemished
his glorified his made-of-marble comfortably crucified
motionlessness

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New Safeguards

Silent mornings as the leaves fall, a pause

under the perforated domes of trees,

deep pause of the roots in the soil. Two old men

sit on the bench; they stare at their hands. A woman

gathers fruit from the low branches, the other

woman disappears on the treetop. Later on

the sun strikes its pan on the garden railings;

then the women come down from the trees,

shake off their dresses, get inside the houses,

tidy the rooms, make the beds;

they hold the big despotic guarding brooms

which remind us that we have to always protect

ourselves from something.   

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