Poem for My Twentieth Birthday
Passing the American graveyard, for my birthday
the crosses stuttering, white on tropical green,
the years’ quick focus of faces I do not remember . . .
. . .
Passing the American graveyard, for my birthday
the crosses stuttering, white on tropical green,
the years’ quick focus of faces I do not remember . . .
. . .
"At pet stores in Detroit, you can buy
frozen rats
for seventy-five cents apiece, to feed . . .
Out of the deep and the dark,
A sparkling mystery, a shape,
Something perfect, . . .
My youth? I hear it mostly in the long, volleying
Echoes of billiards in the pool halls where
I spent it all, extravagantly, believing . . .
I summon up Panofskv from his bed
Among the famous dead
To build a tomb which, since I am not read, . . .
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe: . . .
Ventura because she was hungry and because
She was curious—but more because she was curious—
Took the dare, a kiss for a pomegranate. . . .
At this hour the soul floats weightlessly
through the city streets, speechless and invisible,
astonished by the smoky blend of grays and golds . . .
Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee: . . .
Your petitions—though they continue to bear
just the one signature—have been duly recorded.
Your anxieties—despite their constant, . . .