I can’t imagine —
a fairer day to love
You, than
today — the sun is white
on the tiles, the statues are made-up like
prostitutes and in the center
of the universe old men sit
and talk — about atomics, about
woman, does a form exist independently
of the concept?
In Rome, they do not bother
to answer; they make mad love over
philosophy books and afterwards strangely
morph into Oxford tweed —
as if the bombs and green silk
are merely universal constructs,
my leg over your
leg and the crash of people talking
talking like the ocean outside;
Alexander the Great coming
into Paris like a love-song and the whole
louvre exploding in my mouth
after one good kiss.
the last pavilion 