Let me just read two more poems; one's a strange love poem.
Another, I want to read two more love poems, really.
A poem memory to a woman, but I never did very well by--
I didn't do very well by me.
It's called "First Love 1945".
And it's just a remembrance of what first love was like.
March, and the snows have turned,
perhaps the war is over.
The gray crust gives under their weight, and small rivers
sigh in the streets.
Coming home from the dance, where no one danced,
he's in love with Dolly Basil.
Holding her hand does nothing for it.
Breathing beside her, the moon drenched air
letting the silence speak of the slow weight in his belly,
it does nothing for it.
Against the chain link fence going for throat, and ears,
breast, and crotch, helps a little.
[LAUGHTER]
Hours later, she loses her hanky under the viaduct--
this is love.
His shoes darkened like small struck animals.
The rails above shudder and gasp under frozen wheels.
A light oil runs on his back, runs on her lips, and cheeks,
runs on everything; on bitten ears that
hear too much, on tongues of machines that never stop,
on one eye of the star that winks them to their beds.
Forgive me, Dolly.
As I once said, she deserved better; but so
did I. We just had to settle for each other.
You're better than nothing.