The Feast

They sailed into port on a Mediterranean breeze
from olive groves and tangled vineyards

steamer trunks stuffed with seeds,
daguerreotypes and old-world dreams.

La Boca’s painted walls, here, a canary yellow,
there, green, pescadero red, ochre, ocean blue,

swept them on bandoneón chords
along el Caminito to tango bars,

where wine ran more bitter than sweet
cloudy with sediment of lives adrift.

And yet at end of day, they laid the feast,
sang songs of memory to the east.

Still thick and green, the grass grew,
trees tall, the sky, the same periwinkle hue.