You inch down a narrow side street
of a windy winter
in an eastern European city
and into a dark recording studio,
it is 1928
and you sing--no, better!
you hold forth like a soaring eagle--
you will be dead
in just a handful of years.
Now eighty years later
--much longer than how long you lived--
on the eastern coast
of the New World,
I take your CD out on the deck
in summer sunshine
where winds bring only refreshment,
where you make the birds
in their praising pause.
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