(Written in Havana, April 1930.)
By the East River and the bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
and children drawing stairs and perspectives.
But none of them could slepp,
none of them wanted to be the river,
none of them loved the huge leaves
or the shorelines's blue tongue.
By the East River and the Queensboro
boys were battling with industry
and the jews sold to the river faun
the rose of circumcision,
and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied
herds of bison driven by the wind.
But none of them paused,
none of them wanted to be a cloud,
none of them looked for ferns
or the yellow wheel of the tambourine.