they talk down through
the centuries to us,
and this we need more and more,
the statues and paintings
in midnight age

some dogs who sleep At night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best

a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats u
and run inside to the pavilion

in the hospitals and jails
it’s the worst
in madhouses
it’s the worst
in penthouses

They don’t make it
the beautiful die in flame—
suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh
ever...
they rip their arms off,

one of Lorca’s best lines
is,
“agony, always
agony ...”
think of this when you

naked along the side of the house,
8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil
over my body, Jesus, have I come
to this?
I once battled in dark alleys for

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end o
of wine, I have typed from a dozen
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young gi

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking

at their best, there is gentleness
some understanding and, at times,
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glo
have too much.