They can't remember
where the evening began,
and the girl with the Russian name,
but they remember
where it ended up.
In poetry, as always.
Neruda offered his odes,
songs of blood, skin, earth
and the fire of youth.
Brodsky brought his friend Baryshnikov
a dance for the ages.
Bukowski made an appearance,
doodles, half-burnt cigarettes,
typewriter and all.
Szymborska stood in the corner
gifting rhymes, nonchalant.
Armitage charmed his way in
with the nostalgia of childhood
and his butter-fingered verse.
Cavafy took them on an odyssey
on the ocean of life
with gods, monsters and wisdom.
Bolaño made an entrance in furious lyric,
strumming on the savagery of the heart.
Borges snuck in his doppelgänger,
mirrors, swords, hourglasses
and the infinite library of chance.
Through the pages they strolled the night,
under the high ceiling
that mimicked a constellation.
She closed her eyes,
the girl with the Russian name,
and let his voice fall on her