The prophet – and the profit
– and the woman at the bench
that mumbles some litany
while feeding the doves
with crumbs or just mimics
and detritus of words.
And the man that plays
the same obsessed chess match over
and over against the shadow
of a prophecy that never fulfilled.
Autumn and spring and the voices
of games long ended
still rolling over the grass of the Great Lawn,
just as de come-on’s of the whores and old
perverts under the 79th Transverse still echo.
In that center of nowhere, where
one is tempted to believe
for a brief, vertiginous moment
its own discrete, resolute existence, as
that of a point – of a beginning or an end.
In the center, yes, where lines come
to die and histories gather to be unwritten.
And yet, everyone believes
that there, of all places, lies the opportunity
of a beginning.
© Marcelo Wio
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