An intriging poem by Ulrich Wendt

Mr. Livingston

Mr. Livingston is a lens-grinder. How?
His daily work among the dials,
the burning oil, the powdered glass
like sugar, cocaine, snow
is over and over and over vari-grey
tone-lite, tone-ray, blue, green
and the occasional lens bursts into flame.

If you are free this evening,
he will take you slowly down. The grey March rain
has wrecked the old snow down, exposed
the naked neon junk man broken cars
dead bird and are you free
to where the empty men go no place in their over-coats
to where old clothes, a wheel, a broken doll,
a clock with mangled hands
lie useless in the snow and he will take you down.

He will show you down the basement stairs to where
his careful notions of distracted light
burn green, blue bending red. An unmade bed,
a broken chair and paints lie scattered.
He will offer wine in paper cups and he will offer
visions in a sketch-book, page by page, the holy visions
burning in a slowly turning brain.

And are you free this evening?
He longs and lingers for conviction.