Forgetful Angel

Abroad again. Even the houses are dancing.
In all the uncertainties of Amsterdam
I reread old diaries to remember who I am:
there’s Happy Donut—none of your usual morose donuts here!—
and songs with the names of towns in them
and wicked, wicked Caroline.
Is any place better without a lover? At least
some make you want to learn, not do: the rain
beating on the skylight like Paul Klee’s Timpanist, the sound
of a Van Gogh painting, a nap outside
beneath medieval walls—none of it a “force of nature.”
Learning not doing is a form of forgetting.
The Berkeley conference on trace elements
has explained this easily detectable weight loss to our complete
    satisfaction;
on the ocean you can learn the rest of the stars, all the way to
    the horizon.
This guy in Zagreb knows forty languages but he’s crazy.