As you might expect, my momentary vision barely
qualifies: you know, sensation something like the merest
swoon, some uncertainty about why all of a sudden

The way had become unbearably slow, progress
imperceptible. Even his hunger had become
less, little more than a poorly remembered myth

Of Love's discrete occasions, we
observe sufficient catalogue,
a likely sounding lexicon

I know why all the old men want young 
girls, why the other old men love young 
boys, for I see how they are like 

 Listening to guys talk, I’ve asked myself
why they think it’s hot to catch two women
in a clutch, I mean, to watch lesbians

No rain for weeks, cows hold
their milk within covetous udders.

The river lies still as an infant

It’s getting harder to remember the Thirties. 
Public gestures are so replacing private embraces 
That, thinking back, I can visualize old Cactus Jack 

Too many domes of colored ass 
Stained the white radiance.

  I remember an old city, red walls and battlements, on the immense plain burnt out from the August heat, with the far-away spongy cold comfort of green hills in the background. Enormous emptiness of bridge-arches over the stagnant river dried to thin leaden puddles: a black moulding of mosquitoes shifting and silent along the banks: among the dazzle and 

Coffee: the tightening at the heart,
The wreath of ice, like thorns
Arranged there to give pleasure,