My heart’s thirst shall never be assuaged
by these engraved beauties, damaged goods,
born in a good-for-nothing age,
their fingers snapping castanets, their feet in dirty boots.
I leave to Gavarni, poet of chlorosis,
his twittering flock-the beauties of the hospital—
for I cannot find among these pale roses
a blossom that resembles my red ideal.
What this parched heart, deep as an abyss, desires
is you, Lady Macbeth, a soul on fire
for evil deeds. Aeschylus’ dream abloom beneath an unrelenting wind.
Or better, you, great night, like Michelangelo’s
daughter, quietly twisting into a strange pose—
your charms fashioned for the mouths of Titans.