Poesía

Chance

Is it true that Chance is not contingent,

That the juxtaposition of things in time and space

Is not accidental;  as Jung thought,

And T.S. Eliot, following the I Ching?

 

Flotsam, jetsam, and prostitutes

Seem to be my natural companions.

Is that Chance or Destiny?

Or is it my personality.

 

Was Nadja real, or an eternal fantasy,

The coming together of a magical glance,

A fatal look in dangerous eyes,

The flicker of a light on a boat droning

Along the Río Paraguay:

A thought accompanied by a flock of parakeets,

The sun in orange dusk?

 

What Chance operated to force me out so far?

Why did my heart and soul

Beat so strangely and hear such strange

Silence: why did dogs

Seem to bark at every corner.

 

Out here we are immaculate

Like birds with beautiful yellow underbellies