And might I see made whole all crumbled things*--scent of anisette, the spot
on the tablecloth, loin marrow in the wooden bowl's crevise, pocket-
knife whittles and the hand's gesture when the match is struck, sticks smouldering
in straw, or the arms overhead when clothes are hung out to bleach of sky--
for what is broken but the brain's sorrowful attempt to make meaning--
New Orleans a theatre of wrought iron scenes amidst clutter, the uncounted
boxed losses, reliquary of aftermath; or maybe envision
suburban houses, how trees and rocks are planted, the mother dragging
manure sacks to the yard now laboring in cubicle, the concrete
fiber and pollen, remembrance of elders in the distance, great-grand
parents like vintage poems that will wait years to be found, translated and
published, and to ripen like figs plums apricots bruised by the summer
hail, autumn's scrim, entwined within the red cedar scent, scat of blue
jay staccato drunk on holly berry; fragmant of the first family--
the children's oval faces at the picture window on St. Francis,
122nd, or was it 42nd; their view to the street
clogged by camellias and the old growth dogwood the builders let stand.
* Please find below the poem by Jose Kozer from which this writing is inspired.
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