England

 

Something half-came back with me
from England. I’m too jet-lagged
to decipher what. But
as I ferreted through shreds

of the remains of my dim consciousness

today, colluding with Manhattan to return
me to its mix and sway,
I sensed I was the object

through my haze

of a determined gaze –
a distillation of the past
innumerable-seeming days

when England spooned me up

and swallowed me –
a fix of Caliban-ish eyes
which bade me undergo an absolute

refusal to resume whatever compromise

had held me up until that moment.
The sort of thing that ought to foment
change. Rough magic. Strange.







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