I wish that all the faces and the voices
of the past would gather like crystals
around a pure sound and form a tapestry
I could sit and gaze at forever.
Once in the middle of the night in Mexico,
three days after Mardi Gras, a voice
called my name, just my name that was all.
Since then I’ve been listening in the dark.
Having ravaged the landscape periodically
like a one-man horde of barbarians,
I wonder what survives on that surface.
Does a tree grow there?
When I cease my explorations will it be
at that spot, that very spot? A place
that doesn’t change is filled with spirits.
Whether the spirits are there
because the place doesn’t change
or vice versa I don’t know.