“Inevitable, the body of the world
Weeps in inventive dust for the hiatus
that winks above it, bluet in your breasts:
—Hart Crane, “For the Marriage of Faustus and Helen”

Weeping for Thee, we will weep up the ground with our
Glittered hexagonals, sweeping the sound of thy
Lost-ashore music, Thy rain curling true past our
Tears, sparking light through the patterns and bars, burning
Dark through the trails of such solace, such stars to thy
Breasts. Dust is, always, the language we use,

Its hiatuses winking each moment to sigh out our
Bodies’ inventiveness, worlds reaching Thy bluet
Breasts! (There is, always, this language for You,