To W.H. Auden---April 18th, 2002

Something in the ethereal quality
Of Light and
The twitching of each
Insignificant spider-web
Prompting the slow spread
Of Later Evening,
Rattling-heavy trucks, unseen, bound for
Some Southern location.
Preemptive street-lamps and
The reminder of light breeze
Lifting my still hair in thankful
I am still alive

And tho'
To be true to form this lilac-
Scented Dusk should
Call to mind invocations of Whitman, then
Light all-American
Perfume of cooking meat and
Driveway lights, it is
There in every yet-
Faded leaf, glistening with
The previous heat of the
Day, the new buds like
Birdsong, I can
Invoke the image of you,
A cigarette faintly in your photographed hand, glazing
Faintly of, at flickering
Street lamps. You stare
Up, in melancholy acceptance, at least it feels
As such

In the detail of each
Breaking root, surfacing
To welcome this Newly-born Spring,
The inebriating air, recalling
Your statement about
Those morose, mourning dogs
Of Europe and how much
Truth you managed to
Encompass in your spoken-of
Lovers---yet not of
My blood nor my dark
Eyes, still, my dog laps of
Its water. I brought it
Outside for Company. I have

In that one portrait of you,
Staring into a sun, of York,
I assume, though to make sense for me,
It perhaps may be Berlin. Still, it is
Not of me. I almost imagine
It a cloudy day

The day of record highs
This day. Not cold nor dark, but
Best this last of Light.
Your prophetic September,
And the solace in
Anything-more-than contrived
Phrases. O! To your Truth! O,
To admit anguish at assuming I have
The ability to draw you into my own
April night and such.
Yelping and lilac
Scent, the flowers still
From being dust and faded.
I remember Munich-yet-Dresden, and all,
London, then You.

Upon the Night, as it
Affirming streetlamps.
All you.
~ Danke ~