Spring again. Wet April calls the blue
from the sky, would give me names
for all the green things writhing from the earth’s

It is true, it is true
Sing the whippoorwills slightly off-key
In the small city park at night.

 Whatever the great religions offer
it is afterlife their people want:
Heaven, Paradise, higher reincarnations,

The shaven rinds of lemon
                we squeeze and stir
                                into our espresso,

It was just a walk down the hall
—the teacher, my mother, and me, skipping—
to another world.

First, go to Hell—I mean, seek out the Halls
                of Hades and his consort,
Persephone the Dread. Here’s what you’ll need:

This is a city of bridges,
though the water has mostly fled;
a city of ambitious span

 Damon the artisan (none as fine as
he in the Peloponnese) is
fashioning the Retinue of Dionysus

Yes. I have seen the end, and yes,
I was disturbed by what I saw.
That I yet glimpse occasional

What comes more easily now
than writing to the dead?
To look back at the body