(in memoriam W.H. Auden, 1907-1973)
The notoriety of the grand, the fine, the well-hewn lines,
an intelligence so lightly worn and shorn of turnaround or fallback,
fool’s gold and babytalk beside bridgebuilder’s rune
or theologian’s pearl, the filthy habits and the anecdote hoard,
the lens wiped lovingly with poison oak, clear as a bird
swung on a stormcloud’s tail.
The boiling hiss of sunlight
on the sea, a stranger’s forward glance notorious as touch.
What isn’t asked is what is often seen, the grip
of language slips so mind will follow, pronunciation muffled
with a cough or laugh, the runner’s stretch a blaze
of saffron in a black and white world, desire the mere
ambassador of love, lazing like mist across the path.