Budapest
Park planets in the colors of the flesh,
Outdoor café lights, rose and peach and gold,
String over us a solar system near,
Yet hazy in its clouding space of trees;
And as the padded hammerheads are round
That strike the cimbalom, and as the bows
Of café violins are comet hair,
The music, provably, is of the spheres.
Its Gypsy violinists, each, are of the Earth:
Hard forearm in the shining satin sleeve;
Blood down the ear lobe where the earring tears.
Note how the chin-rest calluses the jaw.
Guttering in its tulip chimney, gas
To warn the nostril, hot wax on the skin,
The candle on the table blinds the palm
Of the poseur whose two Gauloises it lights;
Confounds the palmist. Seer, see yourself.
Old Europe, operetta to the last,
Turns its blind eye; and, marginal as you,
Looks for its future to the leaves of tea
And for its luck to who may stack the cards.
The fiddler’s genitals show in his tights.
Minorities are known for lust, for dirt,
As well as for their rhythm. Gypsy, play.
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