Dirge
The glory of young men is their strength: and the beauty of old men is the gray head.
Confused as Abelard, Castrated and in love, I lay cross-shape on our front yard And watched the oaks. Worlds happened in my body. I cried dry salt; I was blind to flowers. I spent my days lying down, drinking Cokes And hunting for girly shots in magazines.
It always took the sun a year to make its arc. Verbena turned anemic, ferns fell flat; Motorcycles kept the pavement squealing. My mind was lichen, tousled— To me as to my father. Summer moved Slower than winter, winter than summer.
Everything seemed to be dying While hair grew on my body. An alien talked in my throat, my legs were aching. Dreams I couldn't repeat Were well worth dreaming.
Vaguely I was a hero: A football to my chest, Ape-goggles to my eyes, A bronzed man moving slow To the cries of big-bosomed girls. Vaguely I watched them crucify my weeping father.
Obscene to look upon, Ugly-smelling of growth, Narcissistic, nude, I moved to the thought of windy skirts, Sparrow-love, careening cars. Emotionless as an animal.
I moved in mind But neither moon nor movie star Could budge the rib-bars under the skinny flesh, The too-long arms I tried to hide.
Though I was gross and dying The grass would cling to my shirt (And I could not be chooser). Belly-down—the summer clock stopped— I moved to the sound of lava, Dead-slow to the sound of dying.