for Jake Adam York
In the wood-world’s torn despair, where winter
wolves bark amid wastes of snow, & last year’s
leaves are smoke, compose the dark, compose
the last word still tender on the eardrum
as evidence collects beneath the cancelled stars.
Today I have done nothing.
Nor could I recognize you in the haze
with a plain face hiding thousands
of other faces, fasciculated, beautiful.
The black waltz starts. The gods don’t speak.
For a long time there was no sun.
Like a midnight mockingbird
you appear now singing in the foliage,
the joy of your approach, perhaps for the last time.
[Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Ingeborg Bachmann, Pablo Antonio Cuadra, Robert Frost, Larry Levis, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Yoshioka Minoru, Eugenio Montale, Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Walt Whitman, W. C. Williams, Jake Adam York]