Because it all just breaks apart, and the pieces scatter and
rearrange without much fanfare or notice.
Because you can't and don't remember the step that kicked up
dust and left this planet—you'd give up even more now.
Because the body itself—the heart's
not dead but deeper, wrapped up in curtains, a different color,
among the railings and the pigeons, the rooftops and
for all you know it's a question of bread
Because even love
returns. The city's all brightness
and shadow, deckle-edged, bluer than air—there's no help
anywhere—you no longer know how to listen.
And love says, love—midnight to midnight,
already ablaze. And the boulevard—wide-open. And the well-
stocked crowdless market, and a lone taxi blears.
Even happiness—the way anger's come back to roost again.
And joy, though joy's not in the ear or the eye. On this
The gulls hover offshore and the islands are speckled with fire.
Even love, even because.
Ralph Angel (Seattle, Washington, 1951). Poeta y traductor. Docente de Lengua Inglesa y escritura creativa en la Universidad de Redlands (California).