What was is . . . since 1930;

the boys in my old gang

are senior partners.  They start up

bald like baby birds

to embrace retirement.



At the altar of surrender,

I met you

in the hour of credulity.

How your misfortune came out clearly

to us at twenty.



At the gingerbread casino,

how innocent the nights we made it

on our Vesuvio martinis

with no vermouth but vodka

to sweeten the dry gin--



the lash across my face

that night we adored . . .

soon every night and all,

when your sweet, amorous 

repetition changed.



Fertility is not to the forward,

or beauty to the precipitous--

things gone wrong

clothe summer

with gold leaf.



Sometimes

I catch my mind

circling for you with glazed eye--

my lost love hunting

your lost face.



Summer to summer,

the poplars sere

in the glare--

it's a town for the young,

they break themselves against the surf.



No dog knows my smell.