After the winter thawed away, I rose,
Remembering what you said. Below the field 
Where I was dead, the crinkled leaf and blade 

  Mario for mayor of me, and my glorious city.
  The Mayor of New York should be a nightingale.

let’s try a more
domestic framing, angle your hands
in the shape of a rooftop, someone was waiting

The loneliness I felt for you and the loneliness
You felt for me
Was hideous, it was the true hell of love.

Things that divine us we never touch:
The black sounds of the night music,
The Southern Cross, like a kite at the end of its string,

Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
      like a dew.
In the morning, little galaxies, they flash out

Long I have seen those eyes,
Alert, astonished, bright,
Turn softly and survey

When I opened my eyes, a doe was standing only a few feet away from me.

  Everything I love is young. I love you, because you are
young. Satire, Epistle, the glistening inner wing of a redwing
blackbird’s wing, you too are young.
   I am dying young. Horace, young lover of old words,
young new faces, I love you best.