Forty-six years ago, bubble-blower, the great
event took place, in the river-name district
of Amsterdam, just to the west of
my memory – my one and only birth.

Love was showered upon me right away,
as love is showered on those who are most,
most rare and who emerge before your
very eyes, drenched to their naked skin.

I was deemed from the outset to be worth more
than I would ever be in my own eyes.

My most patient poem, my pithiest sentence,
my swiftest pitch into a son’s glove,
have not offset the fact that I then,
on the sole occasion of my birth,

was for those present the world and more besides,

the bubble that mother-of-pearl comes drifting
through the garden and does not know the breath
that blew, cannot turn into the wind.