John Huey- Flight

Flight

I have been rowed across the Volga and seen the
sun breach the waters.

Gone in the mist in Delhi late at night, the translucent 
tarps glistening over the masses living in the rain, they,
briefly encountered through the beads of moisture, alive
on the car window as the incandescence of wealth passed
over them.

Lounged in the market in Argentina where Borges walked 
on a Sunday, the beasts and demons twitching.

Rome in summer, Stockholm in the snow, Jakarta in league 
with the moon, Hong Kong and Osaka looming, all through
all, never lost, world beat teeming Pyramids just out there,
shamed by their broken Gods, the city now filthy. 

As I could, with legs still good then, I climbed the stones 
of the Acropolis and noticed how light was eaten by the 
marble there.

Listing, on the Mount of Olives, a bird sounded, high above 
the terrorist barrier wall, telling me to never fear, that it was
all right, that the Dome of the Rock was in place.

Moscow there always but silence now reigns, and, as when
I was young, the pigeons still scrounge for crumbs in 
Lafayette Park from the hands of the Capitalists. 

Manhattan, that unmistakable feel at first light, the instant 
sense that its enough and too much simultaneously, so 
earnest and intentional in its aspirations. 

Once, in San Francisco, we walked the length of Golden Gate 
Park and, finding the Pacific, turned to the bridge where the 
lookouts sat, warning Poets not to jump. 

There, in that haze of the far West, you asked if we could  
live there and, I replied, that I had lived everywhere 
and was weary now, and, with any luck, that it
was time for home, and bed. 

But though rest is appealing, and Gascony and Siena are
somewhat muted, still the power of place remains, and 
the bags still sit in the closet waiting, Bangkok 
not far in the distance. 

Find John Huey’s The Moscow Poetry File on Amazon

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