To Rietta Wallenda
Tightrope acrobats dance above safety nets
Nerves taut like violin chords
Pulsing on neck, tendons stiff.
The fisherman spreads his father’s nets
Repaired a thousand times, damaged again
He sews his wounds on the beach
Fastens the corks
The old man with the young eyes
who listens to Mina and
–faraway look toward his sea,
a cigarillo in his mouth–
dreams of America.
Or, once a young girl
with a butterfly net
out to catch impossible sprites on hilly fields
On the outskirts of the city.
You don’t know where I have been
and what I have seen.
The spider crochets his architecture
His gothic cathedrals
With divine geometry
With infinite patience
Behind the mirror.
Addendum September 5, 2011:
A search on the term ‘funambulist’ and inquiries about Moussavi’s “Function of Ornament” led me to find an incredible blog and post:
The editor is a fellow ‘literary architect’ interested in theory, film, art, books.
Won’t you join me down the rabbit hole of Borgesian architecture for a read of ‘Aleph’?
This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.