Harpo Marx

Harpo Marx, your hands white-feathered the harp— the only words you ever spoke were sound. The movie's not always the sick man of the arts, yours touched the stars; Harpo, your motion picture is still life unchanging, not nature dead. I saw you first two years before you died, a black-and-white fall, near Fifth in Central Park; old blond hair too blonder, old eyes too young. Movie trucks and five police trucks wheel to wheel like covered wagons. The crowd as much or little. I wish I had knelt… I age to your wincing smile, like Dante's movie, the great glistening wheel of life— the genius happy…a generic actor.