SCRIBE
The name
never left his lips: he talked
himself
into another body: he found his
room again
in Babel.
It was written.
A flower
falls from his eye
and blooms in a stranger’s mouth.
A swallow
rhymes with hunger
and cannot leave its egg.
He invents
the orphan in tatters,
he will hold
a small black flag
riddled with winter.
It is spring,
and below his window
he hears a hundred white stones
turn to raging phlox.
Paul
Auster.
