Drunk in the Hirschhorn garden,
it seems  the sculptures rise
and take to air, bronze on bronze.
Swear as sweat drops in the corner
of the eye, squint against mounting glint
of the polished windows that gaze
so blankly over the glossy green estate.
Drunk again at noon, and hardened
by hurt against the friend who surprises
with criticism: she must realize it spawns
first inside the soul? First mourner
at my living funeral. O Jennie, swimming
through the garden with your cotton grace,
tolerate my dazed smile, amid the statuary.