This one is another journey poem called "The White Hotel."
And I suppose in a sense grew out of a trip,
the Westerns and the Shelton's took to Weymouth last year.
There is no particular building which
represents this White Hotel.
It's a an amalgamation of several places.
But it is I think the influence of Mexico
more than anything, which caused this.
And because of that particular trip,
this poem is dedicated to John Weston.
"The White hotel."
When winter comes, adjust your voice to it.
When the clock dies, hide it from the children.
Do not resist the urge to travel,
it will be only a journey and there is no arrival.
Drive-through the desert quickly,
it is inhabited by those in search of death.
You have as many minutes as the rain has eyes.
Beside a gabardine sea, you will find the White Hotel
where bougainvillea drips from the roof like blood.
Dim lights will be on in the hallway along moss carpet,
flowing past a wilderness of doors.
Stairs crowded with unpredictable lovers
and assassins.
In the bar, new arrivals celebrate reunions
by throwing their glasses into the fireplace,
others just drop them on the floor.
When anything falls down in this hotel, it lies there forever.
All night, people sing old songs.
When the shoe tree blooms in the desert
and the ice plant melts by the sea, all night,
the water will rest quietly in its blue tomb.
At dawn, when palm trees wave their arms
as they do at the slightest change in plans,
you will watch waves send up fine contingents of water,
each retreating without losing its courage
thousands of white truces negotiated on the sand.
And with your pulse beating for distance, your hair turning
to salt, you will say, because of its great depth,
the sea can forgive anything.
But do not linger at the White Hotel
or soon you will learn that memory is the only kind of loss
we ever know.