1.
The sun slips from the sky.
Another day joins the past,
each moment a frame
in burnt, halting celluloid.
Sad movie: cut—stop rolling.

2.
The clouds roam freely
like horses in open valleys.
I, too, join the play
in chameliod heavens
from this terrestrial point—
afar, stranded on dark Earth.

3.
The trees tremble.
Police sirens fade, distant.
Stars puncture the sky.
Everywhere cries are heard:
“Make this cohere once again.”

He looks hither, thither and then afar
to question the shocked silence of his fear.
Above him reigns a scintillating star,
wrought in the dark sky like an icy tear.

He moves between plots of freshly-dug earth
with the cautioned step of a wounded fox,
and discovers traces of that second birth
which calls pale men to the funerary box.

Dead, interred but yet forgotten so soon
no grave bore the name of him who once was.
Like a stolen kiss beneath a full moon,
these men were disposed of without a pause.

This is what terrified the aging Pushkin so.
Death itself inspired no unusual woe.
But he lamented those names lost in snow.

I am the sad widower, dissolute;
The prince of Aquitaine, by luck deposed:
My glistening soul is dead; its jeweled flute
sings perturbed melodies until opposed!  

In the darkness of tombs, I am consoled.
Return, Oh Pospillo and the seas which doze:
The flower which pleases my heart has been sold;
And vines grow thick without the tender rose....

Am I love or Phoebus? ... Lusignan or Byron?
Still, I'm made to blush from the queen's embrace;
Although I dream in Neptune's silent place.

I have crossed the Acheron twice before:
Upon the Orphic lyre I've played by turns—
Saintly sighs and the awful cries of yore.

I wandered back to this city a prodigal son,
penniless, without friend or creed.

The city chokes on fumes and waste.
Dark rivers swallow reflections.

I have contemplated the mystery of street lights,
worked charms under full moons—
but the city will not yield to my insinuations.
Its breadth remains impenetrable.

A hard-faced mother:
she has not shown me the love
of which she is capable.

One day I must leave, never to return.

What doth compel a man to love a cat?
The dog is better suited to his pleasure
than this idling creature often grown fat,
whose indulgences know no steadfast measure.
Yet I'm drawn by this natural conceit,
that a common beast should groom its coat,
and in idler moments still, lick its feet,
rather than on some human master dote.
For it is said that the feline is curious;
as am I, a monkey with simple verse—
redeemed, if not altogether spurious.
Besides, I can imagine what's far worse.
Better a cat with a cautious, easy stride
than a politician without due pride.