I do not have the love to write,
Like Neruda amongst the pines,
With passions above his head,
Yeats’ fine cloth of sky--prostrate,
Those dreams onto the goddess of death;
A muse, of outer-esoteric regard,
Joyful in the solitary light of the Western star
Where the thrush slits his throat on life
Killing all good portents, in cold sobriety.
Beneath the sod, images O death, images!
And again and again, the dirge pouring as from
An artery, forced down below the sod
In the self, harsh adjacent self-the song
Like the thrush in the pines gurgling out;
She: “Whitman’s flowers will not fall from another’s hand.”
She: “Do not be sad; let the delusion of togetherness fall instead.”