Humankind sets the price of the earth—
What is the value of things buried deep within?

I would extract a fortune out of dust,

I would mine the sky for diamonds and the soil for moons,

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).