From this small word ‘amour’
so heavy in its vowels,
slice out the letter ‘o’
and love’s proper name
rushes on like a river
… the Amur, to be exact,
that blue-gray unpredictable flood
galloping between two worlds
which, being so alike,
have no choice but to quarrel.
From its southern bank Manchuria
sticks out its tongue,
muttering nasty things about ‘yo mama’
to cross-eyes Siberia, wild
in its lavish ice.
The river gallops carefree past
and back again,
a foamflecked horse no man can saddle …
But memory, like music,
leaps time and borders,
invisible trapdoor
that sets the dreamer free.
From John Wayne, who found the steppes of Mongolia
less than one-hour’s drive east of L.A.,
to Claude Debussy, strumming
an image of ancient Japan
out of the flutter of candy wrappers
tossed from the bridge of Notre Dame …
So restore the letter ‘o’
and let the word float down through air,
to sound,
with a horn-player’s
muted breath,
through memory’s
riderless purple sage,
a single note to heal or break
the heart of every soul that hears it.