World Underneath the World

- after Adam Zagajewski

I'm trying to do 
what the poet instructed us to do:
praise the brokenness in the world
—its annals written in a script 
that looks like concertina wire,
its manifests crowded with passengers 
that have forgotten their destination
from the length of time 
they've spent in this barge
floating on choppy water.  Ahead,
a wand of white whisks the air
once every few minutes,
briefly illuminating a landscape
of rocks and cogon grass. I think
I can see where I began this journey:
there's a park there too, and horses
cantering around an oval.  Inside
the house that has fallen into ruin,
light sifts at certain times of day 
to make a lace like crocheted curtains: 
along borders of mercerized cotton
thread, the outspread fans of peacocks; 
an embarrassment of yellowing 
swans and roses and hearts. 

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