Here, nothing! But look, look at our loves
Hung over nothing, hung on the wind's
Rupture-oiled with our selves, sick
On that fool's honey. Dear, only Dumb
Dick glistens, up early, early.
It is always early in that blunt head,
Early to learn, all thunder, all thumbs,
The diving to where we will be dead,
Although living.
Love seethes to suds, seed runs
Like whey in the raveled vein.
Dumb Dick stands alone, or shrunken
Sleeps. No matter. More than the stunned
Wonder matters; more counts than who comes.
We stumble past coming toward colder
Turnings : the turning in the dark to wheeze,
The head turning as the penned blood stutters,
The cold floor under the spen t wonder
Turning, and the learning we are old
Turning like returning thunder.
Love, I will not be done dying,
I will not lie dead.
Leslie A. Fiedler
LETTER TO THE TIMES
Sir, I have various complaints to make.
The roses, first. When they are ripped
from the earth expiring, we sigh for them
prescribe tap-water, aspirin and salt.
But when we lie down under the same earth
in a dry silly box, do they revive us?
Their odor of rose-ghosts does not change
at all and they continue to call out
