Ballad of a Weekend
I
I
remember what you wrote,
As
the sound of your voice
Fills
the room tonight
With
sudden memories.
Your
cryptic apologies
Are
ridiculous now,
As
when you spoke of faults
In
the Earth, or of an ice age
Alive
with controversy:
How
buried borders
Would
suddenly surface
To
cover us in shapeless
Earth,
the landscape
Itself
moving,
Shaking
down the walls
Of
our room with the dust
Of
timbers.
“The
mind has mountains,” you said,
Quoting
Hopkins. But, when the night
Folded
itself into napkins of light,
I
still didn’t want to read your letter,
Or,
even, clean up the scattered pieces
From
the floor, and so left them
Lying
in the gray sand.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
TO BE CONTINUED ...
— ALAN KAUFMAN, author of Drunken Angel,
editor of The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry
"La Prade is a gifted poet, memoirist, critic, photographer, and urban chronicler of lost artistic and literary byways, with a historian's eye for New York cultural history and downtown avant-garde. Put simply, he dazzles."
— GARY SHAPIRO, journalist
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