Summer 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1956 |

Partiti Da Cotesti Che Son Morti

Unrehearsed, for the love of laughing, her laughter gushed; The wind pressed her skirt to her thighs for the love of spring; And there I was, with her, in a laughing springtime, When the year's first life of blood and kisses rushed. Full of the devil and heavenly hopeful, I came With prayers and oaths and offerings—devoted novitiate. But I learned my love, and she was a hard mistress. O, a school-girl can be such a wise old dame. She returned my smiles. I put my books away, And loved till my lips were chapped. Then was the time For notes and whispers. To hell with the old professor! "Never forget the footnotes," he used to say. This I remember: she was false as the lunatic sea. The tide went out and billowed away to God Knows where, with a furious salty good bye. On the beach, I still find bits of the old debris. That clip at her throat, gleaming in half light, Hair with lavender scent, a black scarf: Out of my mind! I want no relics. Go After her. Go, wish her a g

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