By: Matthew Navey
A Spaniard’s love most tender,
I’ve read yours Arturo, Pablo, Rafael,
though my heart doesn’t lie the eternal
in Portuguese, Aztec, Mestizo-mixed lust.
Passion by which you do name the dawn.
It’s the loss I comprehend;
the bus which drives away in opposite direction,
her uninformed gait which dances your heart,
the high Gothic arch steeple ascent.
O’ this! An ode to the beautifuls of femininity and masculinity
which quiver the hearts of thinkers.
(especially you the romanticists, you
conquistadors lost in ages
with but carnality to explore,
and you Frank O’Hara, dear, whose heart I wish to plunder
from graveyards at midnight!)
To the heartless nights I’ve spent in contempt
of poems which feed the soul,
and swallow the tears of weak-will.