Poem
by Joshua Clover

We are bored in the city, there is no longer any temple of the sun!
How many times have you walked at evening, Taxi Street to Rue No Fun,
Past the post office steps where lovers sprawled like sensual corpses intend us
To see Zone as one lost, city of haphazard marvels and haciendas?
Ahh, they are dreaming of dreaming, as poems do.  They are made of poppies,
As all lovers have been shown to be; they are made of paper, like philosophy.
Here’s an example: “Words are the shadows thrown by ideas, pure surface—
Nothing affixes them to the page but their indolent desire to be seen twice,
Otherwise they would lift from the sheaves of lonely monks and the languors
Of lonely wives, umber wings blurring into evening blur.” The danger
Of philosophy is that the mayor is weeping over Love Will Tear Us Apart 
(The last chapter where Aglaya gets it) in his disheveled terrace apartment
And having a better time.  And look! Here are Aglaya and the lovelorned
Chtcheglov, next-to-last chapter, their eyes black poppies in the lunar
Gloom of the post office steps.  They have seen you once before,
Dancing to tiny music on the newly invented Street of Piano Tuners.

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