Three Lullabies
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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