XXVII

I hate you but I love you –
why the fuck do I do this?

I dream of those dying slowly,
poison frothing from the mouth,
eyes jerking.
To me that peaceful ice
across the forehead,
that scream that cannot find the air,
is heaven.


              ~o~

If you seek Catullus,
look for him far away
in the coiled smoke rising
from a pyre by the Ganges

or right beside you
in that garrulous wounded bird
who’s forgotten all those days
when the birds passed freely between us.


              ~o~

This black doesn’t suit you, Catullus.
Put some bright red,
some glittering brocade
on your shoulder –

the divine is in everything.


              ~o~

This glittering, this lake polished by the wind

longing inscribed on the stem of a boat

too much death in the bones

I have done with smart-ass love poems

a butterfly explodes in a warm gust of petals

by the lake at Sirmione


(from Catullus, The Sermione Notebooks – drafts and sketches)