“The whole business was sincere enough, but a stupid pathological mirage, a magical orange grove in a nightmare. I feel like a son of a bitch.” -Robert Lowell
Foreign knuckles and wide chest,
You hug me like a dovecote nests a dove.
But what am I to think of all this love,
When the words of the poet use the fire gentle girl, the wisp of watery flame, to craft a most perfect work of prose –
He resorts to cliché, the sign of utter infatuation, words like “forever,” “passion,” and “we,”
Then begs her pardon on his knee,
Abandons the praise of Italian men
To resume his Germans of the pen.
Not Rossini now but plaid old Rilke,
Life, green moments, then red silk.
How can I hope for a pure man’s heart?
All is sacrificed by art.
No. No! A woman can’t know!
A virgin’s kiss won’t bleach a crow.