Itaituba

Let us say, I'll say, only one of us speaks,
You being fantasy, someone recalled from
A life which ended long ago, that I have
Suffered from several mistakes. Who was
I, anyway, to have believed that a woman
So lovely, so young, and so frequently seen
As lovely, young and desirable, would have
Imagined herself with me? You didn't, I
Know, and, my knowledge confirmed, I
Ventured here; my first mistake. An aged
Fool, who flew from what he, in his sorrow,
Had to see was fantasy, and nothing more,
To fantasy, and nothing more, to search for
Flashing flakes of gold along a fetid river
Bank. I have a fever. You wouldn't know,
And a filthy, awful little home along a
Muddy road within a jungle on the other
Side of earth. You suffer winter there.
It's fiercely always summer here, and
Insects come to feed on me, and women
From the coast, and from the jungle, come
To sleep with me, although they won't if
They're not paid, and I am running out of
Money. All the gold they said was here
Appears to have been taken, or it never
Really was. Who knows? Let's call it
A mistake. Whatever; I can't come back
Home. Though broke, I've saved a little pride,
So I will live in wretched squalor, doomed
To die of something that will issue from the
River or the sodden sky. My pillow sings
Its siren song, while you, imaginary, fade,
Your way of saying, from such distance,
From across the equator, that, when I said
I loved you, I made one of those mistakes.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 13 times
Written on 2012-01-31 at 01:10

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