For Percy Bysshe Shelley

For what offense

The grave drew near

No crew remembers me

I felt the final inch

Around my feet the sea

No more a child

Did take me for its bride

For Gu Cheng

Autumn 1981

I am not born

But my clothes are blowing in the street

And through the trees

Flowing up along the road

For Frank O’Hara

Dear Frank. I am writing you a letter with nowhere to send it. We’ve taken a room in San Felipe, on the Calle de los Claveles. Separating the bedrooms are fifteen paces covering the length of our courtyard. Purple jacarandas seesaw above us and in the street, blouses dissolve like lozenges to release the natural color. At night we are carried out with our noses missing. Darkness spreads from person to person. Black hills outstretch the rugged profile of the soil


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