Hepatitis
Flat on my back, a foot-square paperback
of The New Golden Bough propped
...
SHELLEY
His arms St. Andrew's cross flat on his chest,
helpless while Leman's beer froth whitecaps clapped
...
During the War
My age during the war, my old man had a pin-
pricked ear. His war effort was hauling loads
...
CAR HOUSE
When mother's '40 Nash gave up the ghost
father stalled it in the dunes outside the court
...
BIBLE CAMP
1. January, Caracalla's Baths were bare
as grocery crates. The codger
...
SKIPPING STONES ON THE AEGEAN
So culture bound I get a hard-on
thinking of classical nudity
...
Giacomo Leopardi
THE INFINITE
Dear to me always is this lonely hill
...
Driving to Florida
One of those mornings when even a piss was cold
glazing yellow the outhouse hole,
...
Animal Burial
Hugging his shoulders the half-year's husband doesn't make
a face of what he hears. "You cried
...
The Troll at the Toll
1. 'And if it wasn't 35 in '52,
Old whipper-snapper, you
...
Looking German
Walking and walking on classical soil,
I feel like Goethe,
...
Bobby Dawson's Descent into Los Angeles
with Mr Light Burden and Mr Smooth Promise
That boy's-book Pilgrim's Progress,
...
Vladimir Mayakovsky
A SONG FOR HIMSELF,
THE BELOVED AUTHOR SINGS
...
Hepatitis
Hepatitis
Flat on my back, a foot-square paperback
of The New Golden Bough propped
on ballooning liver, I study 'the riddance of evil' …
how Romans heave-ho bad glass and Frascati bottles
from windows on New Year's Eve to discard witches.
It's New Year's Eve, I'm yellowing in Rome;
my bed-broken kidneys chip against my spine;
my heart pumps Styrofoam.
A midwinter rain rinses the Palatine
and capitol into the Forum's trench …
that china shelf of shattered Wedgwood ware.
This Roman souse unglues the hand of God
in Clement's apse. St. Clement hefts his oar,
a strip of marble chits. The faithful are
suggested by the stags that lap the drench.
Rome's fallen into the hands of men.
Now the defenestration begins
with somebody's bidet crashing the cobblestones …
the witch's external soul in crockery.
Even in borrowed sheets my breath is white.
I'm fading with the year. My orange Etruscan urn,
made in Trastevere, rattles its dumb lips
begging to break. At twelve I vomit bile
while all the burnt-out bulbs of Rome explode.