LETTER TO KEATS’ BOY
dearest brain-sick lover-poet, mythic shepherd-prince;
to you, who spoke of yearning, of lying in the dirt alone,
who asked, is grief contain’d / in the very depth of pleasure?
i have all this to say—
endymion, i know you ached
with this love, half-graspable, carved inside of you,
unfit for the size of you, steeped in cowardice,
for it spurred your creation, a man with love so pure
we imagine it godly, as a privilege offered at the cost
of one’s life, and awakeness, and death, and why does
no god ask a price of me? had i paid it enough while
waiting, half-asleep? had i wandered long enough under
a sky, moonless, wanting, swaying at the edge of a canyon,
thinking i could jump, not to die, but to be cradled
in the arms of a rocky maw, have it hold me,
have it send my life upward, out of my chest?
for here is selene, in afternoon light, still gleaming,
having left the night empty to sit upon my bed,
and sing to me, and falter, let her voice
fall out of tune, and tremble—
(you!
you with, always with words, now stumbling
over them— tell me— say my name—)
shepherd-prince, do not
lay down—
your selene, cratered, crooning,
thinks you, endymion, are the moon, and she is you—
mortal, brain-sick, asleep.