After Catullus

I To whom shall I give the freshly inked pages of my book, Cornelius, to you? No, to no one. Rather let the mice gnaw at the edges and cockroaches nest in the space behind the sewn and folded signatures, for the world sets no store on words Ive placed there in strict homage to secret thought. II A history of the world in a single volume? If only you held your ambition as well as your wine.

III Delicate passerine, calm in sinew, tenacious, dead, still bird; twice-imprisoned sparrow, more precious than the eyes that watched you, caught by what no creature can escape, you rouge my ladys water-laden eyes. IV Because of a wind in the leaves I left my home forever. For the sake of a rustling wing I chanced an endless road. Suns may rise and set. Once brief light flees, nothings left but perpetual sleep.