Distance? Well, yes, a sort of distance, or a mute
remove from the genuine distress he witnessed

I know why all the old men want young 
girls, why the other old men love young 
boys, for I see how they are like 

Grief stricken, Charles would have nothing more to do
with poetry, he was burning everything. I warned him

I don’t think guys want to see lesbians,
to have real-life, full-fledged dykes strike a pose,

No rain for weeks, cows hold
their milk within covetous udders.

The river lies still as an infant

  I remember an old city, red walls and battlements, on the immense plain burnt out from the August heat, with the far-away spongy cold comfort of green hills in the background. Enormous emptiness of bridge-arches over the stagnant river dried to thin leaden puddles: a black moulding of mosquitoes shifting and silent along the banks: among the dazzle and 

Coffee: the tightening at the heart,
The wreath of ice, like thorns
Arranged there to give pleasure,

None of us sitting home alone
On a dull, rainy evening
Thinks of the nude male body

It’s getting harder to remember the Thirties. 
Public gestures are so replacing private embraces 
That, thinking back, I can visualize old Cactus Jack 

Too many domes of colored ass 
Stained the white radiance.