Central Park


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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