THE OLD DAYS

Implicit echo of the
seemingly friendly
face and grace as well
to be still said. Go to hell

(or heaven), old American
saying -- My sister's friends
are affectionate people,
and also seemingly real.

Can I calculate -- as to say,
can I still stay up late
enough to catch Santa Claus or
New Year's, are the small, still

tenets of truth still observable --
And how is your mother? Dead, sir,
these les --

And if I am mistaken, sir.
If I am thought in error, was the error
intentional, did I mean to confuse you.
Were the great waves of myriad voices too

much of enough -- You remember Cocteau's A little
too much is enough for me -- Tits were beautiful --
bubbles of unstable flesh, pure, tilting pleasure.
You cannot finally abjure beauty

nor can you simply live without it --
reflective, beating your meat, unspeakable,
light headed with loneliness. Oh to be old
enough, fall down the stairs, break everything --

One often did but in such company
was heaven -- Breath, arms, eyes,
and consummate softness -- Breathing softness,
moist, simply conjoining softness, like a pillow.

No man is an island, no woman a pillow --
Nobody's anything anymore.
Was it Pound who said, The way out is via the door --
Do they say that anymore --

Do I hear what I hear. Then where
are the snows of yesteryear,
the face that sank a thousand ships,
all that comforting, nostalgic stuff

we used to hear. Sitting in company
with others, I look at the backs
of my hands, see slightly mottled,
swollen flesh, hear difficultly

through many voices -- see a blur.
Yet you were, you are here --
If I am a fool in love,
you'll never leave me now.

>From ECHOES, New Directions 1993: