12 — From the Latin
My desire won’t stop fingering its crime
And all those noble faces, my good Roman men, all dead?
They divide themselves again and again, in their well-read multitudes
Where a tempered hysteria stands in for Eros
And all the ample consenting multitudes feed,
Cynthia, your sweetness still dreams here.
We are all grateful: time will not quiet
Loyal and contingent loves such as we possess.
One by one, we flee: do our gods object? Although
We read of Prometheus and his kissing of the earth?
We are not what we once were: our lives have grown too long by their changes.
How in exile does Love flee, assailed by Time!
Our graves are long and cold, full of night and knowledge
Thoughts, such as mine, come from this place.
Happy, he who can present himself before such things;
His aspirations cast before gaudy, teary Love:
If we synchronically despise our possibilities,
We will be doing each other a service.
My neck pulses with an exalted desire, although
I have stopped it thus far:
Cynthia, you were first, oh Cynthia, and last you shall be.
— Claire Fuqua