NO ONE READS
Latin
or Greek.
No one knows
Daisies
don’t smell.
No one
is anybody’s
darling
anymore.
Monday, March 11, 2013
NO ONE EVER KNEW
NO ONE EVER KNEW
where we were--
or if, even,
we were dead—
that long
ago—
and what
we were,
knowing, as we
did
that we were
right here
all the time
both of us
quite,
unintentionally,
probably, one
day,
regrettably,
alone—
which we both had
learned too much about,
really quite
young.
There should have
been more
surprises.
NO GHOSTS TONIGHT
No ghosts tonight
untouched that Chopin tools
Marbled; no head
across my arm in peace,
Tranquil-sighed—smoke
on wine; nor grief
Aged dreams to
mix with mine, to follow fools
In
tenderness. No diminished cells
Anonymous, empty
faced, cameoed
In pain-dyed-days
before this wave cold
Shadowed
cliff-hung-hope, my love compels.
NO DOUBT, WHEN I AM SEVENTY-FIVE
NO DOUBT, WHEN I
AM SEVENTY-FIVE,
I shall look back
and damn those days
I neglected
loving someone, when all
it took was the
courage to seem
quite ridiculous
by saying: “You proba-
bly won’t
understand this—but I
love you!” Especially these days
when I have the
strength to pull
knives out of my
chest and bleed
for awhile. .
.and then recover.
(Clicking on images enlarges them.)
NEVER
NEVER
could you have
been
old enough
at any time. . .
the loss
is probably
mine
no doubt,
no doubt.
MY VISCERA
My viscera,
glistening unseen,
Accepts the
alcohol diluted of my
Ancestors, while
stoutish friendly bees
Float
apple-petaled-May in lily ponds
Unaware of
drownings, as heedless youth
In muffled purrs
of motors, drive beyond
The fence,
appearing now and then between
The slats of
wired cypress, drowned in fumes
Unlike the
apple-water-laden bees, and die
Alive and young
which I neglected years
And years and
years and alcohol ago.
MY OLD MAN WAS ANGRY
MY OLD MAN WAS
ANGRY
when he died.
There was no
clenched
fist, but just:
“Goddam it,
I’m dying!”
Christ, I wept,
You had to love
him. . .
After a lunch of
martinis,
Margaux and rare
beef,
He was arrested
(at
seventy-three)
on a
drunk-driving charge
that cost him
eighty-three
dollars. .
.Jesus! did he
get mad at the
judge!
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