Theory of Travel

I am the angel of speed !

My instruments—jets, wheels, and walking sticks !

The boy with the bright blue jacket soaks his shoes in the surf

The woods were already cut when he got there

Beyond them the domes of the capital rise against the evening sun

He follows the red highway to arrive at a closed hotel

As a piano established in the Himalayas

Hollows out the canyon of its presence,

A train curving along the mountain’s edge

Climbs up above the cloud-habitats of men.

She had left herself and all of him behind

For where she was not likely to be found:

“If I could demolish the rules and keep the tradition,”

She said, “romantic and melancholic and austere,

Pieces that would be handed down, like a shawl,

To escape the repetitions of afternoon,

Mechanical thought, the habitudes of house

And home.”  The widow floating on the lake

Viewed the orchards and terraces of Ko.

My angel, my soul, my hypocrite

Imagine the luxury and languor of travelling first-class

In leather seats that recline into a chaise longue

Espresso exported from Peru to Venice

The latest financial news printed on pink paper

White burgundy black velvet blankets

Sleepy cigarettes, white chocolates that burn the throat

When privacy is optimal

You embrace me like a viola da gamba

Glancing around the cabin as we break the sound barrier

Here everything is decadence and pleasure

Repose, extravagance, and leisure

We notice on the ferry bound for Naxos

The color of the sea, when one looks straight down

And not from a distance across its beveled planes

It is as the poet says, not green, not blue

I pluck you like a sheep

From habits where you sleep,

Of body and of soul,

(The last, more powerful)

To keep you clean and clear

Of useless care and fear.

I might send you on the road

To lighten up your load—

Or plop you down a chair

So you may travel there.