from The Art of Poetry

Literary Agent

At the dinner party with Fidel Castro,

he hands me a stack of books––his poems––

including a review copy of his forthcoming

book-length epic haiku sequence. I slip away

from the crinkling of toasts & expensive

women’s laughter & ensconce myself

in the study to read by candlelight, starting

at the beginning. Five minutes in, I’m rubbing

my eyes & staring: the poems are brilliant.

And what’s more, he keeps getting better,

line after line, year after year, like Yeats.

The new book is about a blue manatee that

swims up the Colorado River. It’s as if I’m

watching a movie: I see the manatee first

in extreme long shot, looking down over

the rocky lip of the canyon to where it floats

like an electric-blue torpedo between the walls

of brown rock. Then a close up of its whiskers.

By the end, I’m weeping & need a decade

to collect myself before returning to the party,

where the salads are just now being served.

At an opportune moment I whisper to Fidel, Sir,

your work is pure genius. Who is your translator?