Singapore
by Will Nixon
No one would cast you as a clerk, Orpheus,
not when you've been filmed as a French poet
slipping through mirrors for a liaison with death,
or a samba dancer with trigger-happy feet carrying
your shield like the sun down from your mile-high slum.
But doesn't the most extravagant love grow in a dimlylit basement like mushrooms the color of Venus or Mars?
That's why I look for you, Orpheus, not among studly
red carpet stars or scowling on stage with a phallic guitar,
but at the post office, weighing packages for women
of all ages, the guy with a faded sea anchor tattoo
from a night in Singapore you don't even remember.
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