Let us go then you and I

HELLO, I’M LARRY, AND I’LL BE YOUR POET THIS EVENING
Posted by John Kenney

A short drive from the ferry, Steve Wynn has a complex with two hotels, where the Louis Vuitton outlet is said to generate more sales per square foot than any other Louis Vuitton outlet worldwide. Walking past a tank of luminescent jellyfish, which require a specially designed curtain to sleep at night, the casino official who was showing me the place told me that the Chinese clientele demand a heightened level of luxury, because “Everyone is a president or a chairman.” We stopped into the complex’s newest Michelin-starred restaurant, which has an in-house poet who writes a personal verse for every V.I.P.

—New Yorker story by Evan Osnos about Macau, China, the gambling capital of the world


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Let us go then, you and I,
Misters Lee and Wee-Fong of Beijing & Shanghai Container Shipping International operating out of Nassau, The Bahamas.
Let us go while you are able.

You look like a patient etherized upon a table.
And indeed there will be time.
But not tonight, as the kitchen is closed and the last waiters wait only for you.
There is no more Johnnie Walker Blue.
Do I dare have the bouncer pull you from your chair?
Oh look, bald spot in the middle of your hair.
And indeed there will be time.
But not here.
In the room the women come and go, talking of Prada and Foxconn.

A Question About Birds

A Question About Birds
Billy Collins


I am going to sit on a rock near some water
or on a slope of grass
under a high ceiling of white clouds,


and I am going to stop talking
so I can wander around in that spot
the way John James Audubon might have wandered


through a forest of speckled sunlight,
stopping now and then to lean
against an elm, mop his brow,

and listen to the songs of birds.
Did he wonder, as I often do,
how they regard the songs of other species?


Would it be like listening to the Chinese
merchants at an outdoor market?
Or do all the birds perfectly understand one another?


Or is that nervous chittering
I often hear from the upper branches
the sound of some tireless little translator?


From Horoscopes for the Dead: Poems by Billy Collins