In the Western Region

IN THE WESTERN REGION


Another language is so far away.

The first night the unsuitable duvet
too heavy and so sleek. The next night

that sycamore leaf pasted to the windowpane
by wind and rain – eerie, almost uncanny

its pointy little fingers
but you can’t tell why.

So many rooms, coins left for chambermaids.
You knew you were where it wanted you to be

but who was driving? Was it that woman,
she looked so like a young fox

and talked about Habermas all the way home?
Even you never thought there’d be
so many hills.
…
You were at a performance of Fidelio,
afternoon, the famous floating opera
on the lake.
His gloomy prison has to work its spell
under constant sunlight.
Far beyond the action
some swans were spotted
moving towards the shore.
She kept telling you fine points of the plot,
whispering translations
of the interminable talk
between the slices of music.
Music needs no story,
shut up you tried to tell her with your smile,
your fingers appraising the dome
of her left kneecap.
Does the king know his subjects are suffering?
Does the bedstead know how beautifully you cry?
Which one is you and which is me?
And why are all these Austrians applauding?


Robert Kelly

Posted over on Charlotte Mandell

from MAY DAY: Poems 2003-2005