Alone, all alone, here comes my friendly

verse like a dutiful husband attends

his ruffle-feathered turtledove’s calling

and like the high mountains of thawing snow

over the scrub brush and across valleys

from copious threads of ice is falling–

soothing love and celestial avarice

spill from my oppressed entrails

and the vast blueness covering the earth,

which by the virgin soul of somberly

bloodied humanity becomes perfumed

while the stars pour their benevolent light

in the mating of silence with flowers

and which the aroma off the air lifts

for me both completion and perfection:

as though in a drawing by Angelo

the sword and the fist of a Cellini,

more beautiful than immanent marble

nature laboriously carved itself

of august head where ardently were born

Universal Hamlet and the fury

of the tempestuous Moor–brings to mind

an Indian girl from old Chichen who bathed

at the walls of the gentle river’s edge

in the shade cast by a pompous plantain

from his own body hair, while her svelte bronzed

skin played in the open air.  Give me blue

skies, give me the pure, ineffable, placid

eternal soul of marble at the Louvre

that famed Milo made foam and flower.