Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now —
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled, like Blake’s,
Who exhibits
The birthmarks that are his trademark —
The scald scar of water,
The nude Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck,
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns,
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that,
His hair long and plausive.
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter,
He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody’s done for.