I drove all night, and followed the morning sun 
to craggy coastal inlets as green as if 
the autumn wind that blows so very cold, 

This is not Dante. 
This is a photograph of Dante. 
This is a film showing an actor who pretends to be Dante. 

To lose your hair, to lose your temper, 
if you see what I mean, your precious time, 
to fight a losing battle, 

In a free country I would be shot for my thoughts of you.
Where thought was free as radio waves
       my mind would broadcast your outrageous beauty.

 On the mantle a bowl of sand from the Sahara,
a lover’s gift, and as such the map cowers
beneath the bed. So this is the continent

I do not recall who trapped me in that darkness
The world knows as a vessel of light,
By what cruel trick or Asian sorcery

Happiness, in the fairy tale, comes hobbling
disguised as a hag. And the prince takes pity
on her, bringing her to bed, not knowing this

Reckless as a pack of wild dogs,
autumn leaves loosen and lodge
in the window bars. Each black-tipped

that feeling
of resignation
that comes

When they were wild
When they were not yet human
When they could have been anything,