—Budapest, 2024
That I stood at the doorof the second century—
That I crossedbeneath two giant highways to whereLegionnaires bathed--
The Great Baths—
That above, the continuous roar,trucks and cars freshly 21st century god awful —
That in such an underpass, neighbor to ancient,a harried woman at a window in the wallselling langos and fries tocommuters lined up, their hungera still life —
That each moment passingpasses abruptly to ruins.
***
But mystery. Sometimes it’s a party.
Dis Pater called simply Dis, Roman god of the netherworld. His table —a marble table!Weirdly unburied. Up from dirt one day per century. Down againto the company of blind insects that bury their dead.
How could such a god not be impatient? What is impatience but hope,however hopeless?
I want to write on…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2025