The unhappy few in New York.
Their speech passed on.
No more on the street
the cursing, gossiping, joking, selling, yelling,
voices like fishes flitting into my net.
My potential readers
became the actual readers of Eliot,
perhaps taking the long way around
to come back to me
for the first time,
like that jazz musician who played
Brazilian and Cuban melodies,
returning at 70 to klezmer sounds
of childhood, saying, This is
finally me, for the first time really me.
Yet why not
mix in Latin rhythms?
Our poetry has the provinces in its blood
and arrives astonished at the world.