Crying From Our Autumn

A man shouts the reality of his
Canadian student debt
in the broken English
of talking to lost children
and pets. Words like
"government" and "money"
and "I no pay" compete
at a volume none of us want.

Three bundles of old flowers hang
from the ceiling. In ancient Rome
it means there's a secret,
so I wonder if we share it.
Will I realize what I didn't
know before I go?
Are these lines a part?
Is it the way
the face of the hunched girl
in the corner shines?

There are glimpses of color
crying from our autumn.

Another comes to this table
with blank paper and the hovering
pen of a poet.

I remember you,
black dragonflies.
The river still flows
your patient directions.

I will sing your song tonight
with just enough darkness
for you to find me here
lost
in the mountains.


by jerry gordon
cafe independent, kyoto 11.27.04