I'm terrified of love,
Even though I hear them singing,
Each to each, Tityrus
Or Galatea, the reed that croons
By the hollow beach. "Gorgon"
Rather I whisper, tremolo, a trembling little finger
Perched by my lips, as still as a (silent)
Clay pigeon. If all of the music around me
Were only motion, there's something about the clear
Wings of the subway and their shrill
Beat through dark chasms like so many
Lumps of noisome coal flying through the intestines of this,
My sick city, whose frigid towers peck
At the noxious sky and peal
Out, flower from their basins
As perfectly as the chrome of her lip-stick destined
For vanilla tips. Enough of this beauty:
I hamper for the chaos of things.
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