-Including Fragments of a Poem Revisited-

So that’s it.

I’m pulling out all the stops,

adjusting the dashboard's choke for a jolt of lead ––

yanking the chain transporting the evacuated.

I’m stepping-out with a new
pair of shoes or at the least
Shinola glazing the toe-tips of the old pair of shoes.
I, too, can tell a story.

So that’s clear.

In the meantime, the restless poets exposing their spines

on the shelf have been known to repeat themselves.

From Mexico comes Octavio Paz.

I’ll read him again tonight when the traffic is culled by the late

afternoon time-of-day or the work-a-day weary hand of God.

Tonight, Octavio Paz

will have the opportunity to repeat himself.

        "My hands

         open the curtains of your being"

I've read this line before.

Something has fallen beyond the tree-line toward the river.

        "My hands

         invent another body for your body"

Octavio Paz has come to repeat himself.

But didn't I say I, too, can tell a story?