In parks overseen by stern men
of bird-shit brass, the blue of hyacinth
and the red daub of tulips breaking
the deep yellows - Vincent never painted
- in Dutchland perhaps has none of? -
these daffodils bent down in the rain -
a gray from which mousy forms peel off
to scurry underground. In this city
of millions when spring actually comes
who will sing Walt's song? Walt is dead -
the apartment upstairs is dark - and
I must migrate to the city that
inhabits the shadow of Radhika's breast.
But where is Radhika, under which shroud?
Birdsong and the streak of mating cardinals
among the dogwoods -- earth fills
my mouth, air breathes my bones, I am but
a minstrel of the unthawed cold, half held
but also half cast out of her heaven,
which pulses red like a hummingbird's throat.


04/04/2008, New York City


My Poems