239 292
241
The Eyes of Keyholes
KALEMEGDAN II
By the black-locust blossoms that in a shower
from time to time spill down onto gutters
and drainage grates, and hours later wash out
without smell in the harbor, I discerned the line
of human descent. Into the folds of tobacco that
came to me I drew all the subterranean limbs and
crosses, a complete bloodstream of darkness.
Today, years distant from all travels, once in
a while I climb down from the solitude of cabins
and stone country to friends in the valley to get
the letters and postcards I’d sent them from there,
from Kalemegdan. Much has been patched up with
red brick, a date here and there washed away with
spilled coffee, but in the depth of things all lives are
recorded and everyone’s time has been spent
in advance. And day- and night walkers are
striding across the negative.