so he saw the tower in a city i remember as a
bench, exploding white stars of seagulls’s droppings and a big brown
river slugging its way through the green green grass shining from the
sun like a lazy, mythically-sized snake.
and i saw it in a ruko complex overcrowded with shiatsu massage
parlours, korean corner stores and an angry girlfriend.
but i don’t care about the now.
i guess he never got his feet on the ground because his legs
are helicopter’s propellers.
and even though kiarostami speaks exclusively in parsi we understand
everything, unlike, you know, in that tower.
did she undertstand lights without sounds?
could she have dreams of a mute joe pernice?
i guess she could if she’s seen joe in cabo wabo.
could she count the syllabic length of a breakneck
could she work out the stressed and unstressed syllables in
i like his language
it’s got that slinkiness
born out of just hanging out, kicking back
with friends who speak the same language as you.
maybe even a girl-
i will never have that anymore.
so i rely on my split copy of the cantos
fixing my stares just above the broken white of bowdlerized
and a heart nowhere near as big as phar lap.
they keep a carbon copy of his body in a room just down the
street from where he lives
where the temperature is kept constant at a perfect 21 degrees.