You are hungry For something to do, For someone to walk

Into this wide glassy cage Of spring. You know how To spell thanks

But often can’t be it. You know very many Synonyms for love

Yet you don’t really feel That heat radiating from Your chest. God, (is this

Another word?) is said To live there. Here is A pick. Dig for God.

[1] Caravans are leaving tonight At the city gate. Marco listens And hears camel bells tinkling Deep in his dreams. Such is The sound of departing fate.

[2] You stray into strange towns, Where natives don’t speak Your private language. You Will jump about, wave your Arms, and make gargled noises

Hoping someone in the mob Will understand you. This Is also the story of all your Human speech, and of your Constant desire for barter.

Some things, however, aren’t Amenable to exchange: faces, Voices, and that word, standing For God in whatever language, Which always sticks in your throat.

[3] Marco wakes up. Out there moon Pools in Venetian canals and in The squares a wind paws around, Dressed in flowing oriental robes. He opens an book, and writes

Of beasts, to name which he has To invent non-existent words.