Saturday, April 28, 2012

And That Is This, and This With Thee Remains

Son of a bitch, I forgot about you.
At least, I came to believe I forgot.
Forgive my crude English. I've nothing new
To say about your genius, your argot
Compounded of neologisms coined,
Apparently, by you, low local speech,
And the loveliest rhetoric purloined
From your own age and the Latins (less Greek).
This is just to say your patterns amaze
Me here in thickets of empiricists
Where songs are lost in mumbling numbers, dazed
Recitatives. Your nightingale insists
On arias of invention that are
Nothing less than intimate, more than far.

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