born a cambridge mouse, were you
kissing angels with your quill
feather dusting over cheeks,
gardens bowing ever deep to
birds who cry in Just-
could you smell the
smiling at La Ferté-Macé
with B., in an enormous room,
did the angels kiss instead?
you were a child of ezra and gerty,
but found your hand with sam and will
(your heart and member elsewhere), still
praying for your favorite dead priest
(bitter all utterly things sweet)
as the sunken shadows of afterthought
came prancing up the river Styx.
you rubbed lightly words on a page
that anyone and noone may hold hands
side by side, in graves,
and you may ever charge laughing
into the strenuous briefness
with your seasoned women and blooming mind,
its no wonder you had us convinced.
les petites femmes exactes qui dansent toujours
in our heads, the words
still stand thick and strong
and make us wonder:
what would we do, what could we do
that you havent?