(For Adam Zagajewski)

I lean forward in my chair And close my eyes, as if I were sitting in a pew, and Listen closely to the songs Made by this palmist with An accent, for these times.

He sings of having seen much: The face of Caravaggio’s crucified Christ, roofless temples in Sicily, Lonely subways of great cities Between which he had ceaselessly Traveled in trains with non talking Compartments, seeking balance, After being exiled from those Still sweet, still distinct, long streets Of his youth. He sings of friends Who had sailed away on yachts, Leaving testimonies behind them Of sins and signs they have seen, And joy felt, and suffering endured.

As he concludes, he signs Of how and why we should praise The mutilated world. And somewhere behind me, In the audience, just then, A baby begins to cry, as if In complete understanding.