I’m no Dante, lost though I may be,
Nor you my Beatrice, just as lost to me.

Yet the passions ring, silent to your ear—
O brooding lyric, lead on! Lo these many years:

Atheism is not some sad doctrine
Insomniacs suffer, tossing in bed,
Mourning the death of those yet to die,
Composing frantic verses in the dark

Te he escrito un poema.
No es gran cosa.
Me salió como una premonición,
Entre lágrimas y sonrisas.
Te lo escribí porque 
Por el momento me quieres,
Porque eres brillante, y bella,
E indescriptible.

Why can I not forget when forgetting is the cure?
The warm, wet beach hisses and coos, but her allure
Belongs to those who want to rest. I do not want to rest.
“Listen to your doctor,” they say.
“You are but human! You can’t go on like this!”

My nostalgic heart demands that I be verbose, take my time,
Make of my pain a museum, and wander its halls, seeking…?
Ah yes, these yellowed letters in the attic, half-forgotten,

The world is divided into flowers.
Some go to lovers, some to adorn death,
And still others go dropping petals
Like bombs because it is autumn
And there is no hope for life.

Her hand is a vanquished
Castle of sand or cloud,
A hot breeze gone cold,
A heartbeat felt by fingers
Pressed upon a cadaver’s jugular.

Look at me,
This mess of flesh, of blue eyes,
Of tendons and nerve endings
(No, they are not endings).

I can only give you
That which I cannot hand you.
Forever giving gifts
Unwrapped by your eager eyes–
There is hardly room nor need
For my hand in yours.

I am vain.
I want your skin, your dimples, your breasts.
I want to trace your eyebrows with my lips
And border with my hands your hips.