I like people quite well at a little distance. I like to see them passing and passing and going their own way, especially if I see their aloneness alive in them. Yet I don't want them to come near. If they will only leave me alone I can still have the illusion that there is room enough in the world.
You tell me I am wrong. Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong? I am not wrong.
In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek women. No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate-trees in flower, Oh so red, and such a lot of them.
Whereas at Venice Abhorrent, green, slippery city Whose Doges were old, and had ancient eyes. In the dense foliage of the inner garden Pomegranates like bright green stone, And barbed, barbed with a crown. Oh, crown of spiked green metal Actually growing!
Now in Tuscany, Pomegranates to warm, your hands at; And crowns, kingly, generous, tilting crowns Over the left eyebrow.
And, if you dare, the fissure!
Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure? Do you prefer to look on the plain side?
For all that, the setting suns are open. The end cracks open with the beginning: Rosy, tender, glittering within the fissure.
Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure? No glittering, compact drops of dawn? Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument, shown ruptured?
For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack. San Gervasio in Tuscany