A Version of Repair

I would say to you
without a spur of panic
"My effort is a useless page,
a cracked and leaking cup,

a leveled synagogue".

All day I read the clamor
of glamorous things, a version
of contemporary dancing, words
formed like wings and fury,

ecstatic bodies where

the young, loud princes
compete for immortality,
the most precious winnings-
the multi-colored coat

of fame and season.

In a million years my words
will count for this: a seat
on the whitest horse, a silver coin,
reconciliation, a clear voice-

a ticket for repair.

In the corner of the page
a captive monkey stares;
in a forest fire there is
no time for speaking-

so I prepare a new,
unspoiled manuscript.

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