I hang my head, I do.
A German woman,
nameless even when I see her
and walk, sleep and swim in her
italienische Welt of mid-century
has Corso eating grapes in Paris,
turned, posed or not; et puis nous sommes
and Cassaday mugging dans la village Est—)
And then the world of Bruce Weber—
but I'd be homosexual;
the women would be in forms of undress, beautiful
and I'd have no reason to touch them
though—turn the page,
we are laying
pubis to same, nipple to same,
legs amongst each other
a different anatomy—
a woman, or hope.
I've always wanted
to be photographed in Myrtle Beach.
Night, a lawn chair, in an open shirt,
bonfire with a woman over me
faces cropped from the scene,
my fingers up the outsides
I typed up some stuff about physics,
biopoetics, marketing strategies and art history. Then it occurred to
me that the most important thing about the poem is the image at the end.
At the time I wrote the poem, that's all I was trying to get to.