WIND FROM THE SOUTH

In certain seasons of the year the wind
Picks up small things in Patagonia --
Mice, twigs, sins of a non-serious nature --
And rains them on Buenos Aires.
When he was young, the poet Borges
Persuaded Bioy Casares to free the wind
From the jar where the town council
Had imprisoned it by a vote of six to three.

A BORGES REVIEW

Books I might have written
Haunt me, their well-bound ghosts
Glaring at me from lengthy footnotes
Where I'm not cited or forcing a few words
Into the middle of a quote in some language
I never learned. To quiet them,
I conjured down Jorge Luis Borges
Begging him to write a review

He agreed, after warning me
That it might not be favorable.

QUERIES

Tapping his long fingers on the keys
John Donne asked Google
"The lost years-- where?
The Devil's foot -- who cleft by?"
His machine sang "I don't know
But I've been told
Streets of Heaven
Are lined with gold."
Dissatisfied, Donne typed
"How get with child mandrake root?
Falling star -- how catch?"
His machine blinked and said
"I'll tell you after I've
Completed my design
To keep the Mennai Bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine."
The soul of Borges, who had come
To challenge Donne to a game of chess
Or a ferocious duel, depending,
Asked "John, how long
Since you've rebooted that thing?"

GOD HAS LUNCH WITH SENOR BORGES

Borges did not believe in God and would tell Him so
Over lunch. The two of them would sit at a table
On the banks of the Sambatyon. God packed the food
But trusted Borges to pick the wine. "Tell me again,"
God would say, "about the infinite library
Or maybe the one about the forking paths."
Fond of imaginary beings, Borges would speak until dusk
When Gabriel would appear from wherever he'd been
And drive them home. Borges always sat in back:
God having once and for all cried "shotgun!"