A POET REQUESTS

You saw him from the back
walk up the steps
his face was worn
out of exile
a stain on his coat
the poetic doubt he attaches
to the importance of this visit
the scrupulous echo of mind
abstracted in the empty stare
disconcerted by the coffee
percolating on a tiny stove
watching as through a telescope
mirrors of stars
speaking for alembic hours
on the decline of symbolism
as we meet as the brass door
knowing what my riff suffices
on a jazz language never learnt
that dreams do make sense
that there was a Homer
Villon and Rimbaud.