The Winter Dream of Nothingness by Ronald Monti (1965)

it is not yet the season of kisses

I, idol of a creating One,

Stand the silliness of shadows,

And weave a wicker-chair of death

To dream of One before me:

A gypsy dancer, if not crying was so near

At the 3 o’ clock hour of death day Friday.

I, with him, walk up and watch the hills

that are breathing low—this was

another man’s time.

and watch

Piquant hands that tease a troubled

man’s torso;

grab and tear and grow cold

when they touch a skin

become liquid bile,

and feel

But the wind that bends and lisps and

we see it not,

and are troubled most by hands

that are invisible

and hear

Into the centre of what,

a dark burnous blue-song

and its voice asleep saying:

“I need a death to waken me,”

and leave

a hill as green as glossened weed

and deathly as a drone,

that reached and grabbed without a soul

and scurried with a moan

just now

I kissed a bareheaded young man,

an almost pure Negro,

And saw in my friend asleep

my course and almost pure mirror.


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