READING THE CITY
The city does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a
hand.
Italo Calvino
Previous section: New Management
The Garden
NO EXPLOSIVES. NO KICKING FOOTBALLS. NO
HANGING OUT WASHING CLOTHES
ON TREES OR
FENCE. ALSO IT IS FORBIDDEN TO DEFECATE IN
TOPSY-TURVY WAY.
NO GRAZING CATTLE.
NO GATHERING FRUIT. NO PLUCKING FLOWERS.
Hanoi
Botanical Gardens 2002
Paying a fee, we enter what's left of nature.
Flat concrete paths direct us toward the small
artificial lake, a sphere
of bright lime slime.
Clipped bushes impersonate tranquility.
Except the
drugged youth talking to himself
and remote buzz of traffic, dead silence.
Earth and air expire. Nothing crawls, hops, flies.
The only movement is
us. We sit on the bench
and look, wondering at the source of the urge
to
fashion earth along lines of despotic control.
The last colonialist added
French design.
Now communism keeps the blooms in line.
And yet,
brought by school to camp in tents,
in this enclosure city children still
exclaim
at wild moonlight, the fearful spread of dark
primeval branches.
Around a cage they gather
to watch the faded peacock bow and scrape in dust.
Dep lam ! their voices call. How beautiful !
They bang the iron bars and
clap to make it dance.
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