The History Hotel

scattered chapters  
CavanKerry Press

Elegy for the Poet Adam Zagajewski

You appeared as one of the examiners.
Life, ever laggard in her assignments
But possessed of an absurd confidence,
Came up first. And last.
She curtsied; you smiled while she pulled
Out of a battered suitcase numerous
Attempts at eloquence. “Here,” she said,
“Is the heart, not just a muscle.” She
Winked coyly. “Here is logic.” She brandished
A volume of Descartes. You winced.

In other rooms and beyond those rooms
So much was occurring that went on happily
And unhappily, indifferent to protocols,
Brimming with anemones, half-heard melodies,
Averted glances.
Life cleared her throat and asked if
Everything was clear. “No,” you said. “Nothing
Is clear.” There was then a strangely comfortable silence,
A space that might be an era, a three-score-and-ten,
Or one of those moments that lived in memory
For what seemed like forever.
“Thank you,” you said
To Life and somewhat remarkably she thanked you back.

© Baron Wormser