The mind skitters, its one rudderBeing its own voice. The greatFascist poet taught me free verse.Trying to concentrate on “The forgivingOf an unforgivable crime” in a lectureBy Emmanuel Levinas, I drift intoKeely Smith being Cherokee.“The desire for vers libre,” says PoundIn his hectoring way, is “quantityReasserting itself after yearsOf starvation.” Reading that, IGot the idea—just like in music,Longer is different from higher.Like with long “ee”s,And it was called “quantity”—I could hear it. The third syllableLonger, the first one stressed by pitch:Bitterness. Cherokee. Popinjay.I don’t pretend I was thinkingAbout the Trail of Tears or any otherUnforgivable crime. I was thinkingAbout how well she imitatesLouis Prima’s pelvis-forward walk, mockingThe magic of it while singing likeAn angel in a prom dress, and howGreat it would be to write somethingThat funny and impassioned.The cadences and quantitiesOf his “Exile’s Letter” break my heartAs a ritual of truth, the remoteSpoken ceremony of atonement.At the same time, I scornThat nostalgic celebration of drunkenFriendship among exquisiteDiplomats of an ancient ruling class.Starvation a figure of speech!The airy dynamo of songAnimates the shadows.And speaking of shadows, who hasa right to forgive? White soldiersTook away the Arapahos’ horses.In old Ukraine, the Nationalists firstMutilated some Jews, then made themDance and sing naked beforeKilling them, as a way of showingWhat they’d like to do to the Poles,Or was it the invading Germans. Is the pointHumiliation beyond forgiveness?Do the damned impregnateThe enslaved to make anUnforgivable point? Also to deny it?Even poor John Keats, in his letters,Enjoys a little minor Jew baiting.Who do I think I am to forgive him?After all, I am him. He too was the childOf a New Jersey optician and please do meA favor, don’t tell me No he wasn’t.