TWO POEMS
o
Alice, sweet Alice, the sunlight
Turns on
YOUT
stony head.
Two eyeless statues lie askew;
The water mutes their interview,
And no debate can change the waves
That keep direction on their graves.
LAURA
153
Ma s'egli
e
arnOT,
per Dio, ehe eosa e quale?
What kind of thing, here where my mother's flowers
Bark colors only, like a tranced bazaar,
Is my suburban love for you, which flows
Beyond
all
those events, past the Azores?
In this stilled epidemic place, this lawn,
What kind of thing is it that is my flesh
Like sun upon the roofs of Avignon,
Old and as loving as your name's caress?
Though dinosaurs tramp heavily behind
Your house and you have sharper teeth than mine,
Your warm brown hair runs real beneath my hand:
My mind's intangible alone will moan,
My intellect's electric moral guide
A leer to my lascivious sworn ghost.
