Demigods by the Fountain

February came and I met him by fountains. we
did not exchange words. he was busy looking
after the bustling plethora
of demigods that flew small
silver aeroplanes, that rode cloth horses about
the tile hallways-

but there were certain moments, like fragments
of Catullus that are easy to translate, that weave
Latin to be made of Eros, to be made of the clear

copper water and Eros too,

and in the winter we were both not alone, and
I held my hair up with thin bands from Ionian
islands, and he

went home to the lorelei crescent beside a deep
river, thinking sometimes of the fountain by
which we met, thinking sometimes of the

small coins subtracted out of the olive hands
of Italian demigods, of slavic and irish and brighteyed
godlets, who clambered up the fountain side,

who had playful respect for the winter,
and the marble, and the small silver aeroplanes
that were always flying back over the

new green fields (where the

light Quickeyed horses liked to graze,
and sleep)