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Levin in Georgia

Here you are, Levin
in this Southern gorgon city
feeling the raw pitch
of a dry-eyed morning
floating on the symmetry
of a child's hopscotch sidewalk.

No status for Leo Frank yet
you are whispering nervously,
carrying your language
with the wonder of childhood
by Georgian mansions
with licorice trim
early echoes of half-speech
wanting to get three stanzas
to greet a mellifluous formality.

Here your ticklish life zigzags
with a wrinkled tourist map
near the marsh lilac garden
hoping for a troubadour muse
to bathe some music in
the voice over the waiting room
in a pink hotel lobby mirror -
such a pathetic fallacy is your wish
without a destination.

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