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.

Eyes, though seen, are hollow, impossible

 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

In my room, the Russian nesting doll reddens;
her wooden smile conceals
the crisis of her many same-shaped selves:

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

In the postmodern world
the sequel is always superior

Deliver boat
with mirrored oar
off veneer avenue.