Over and over, a green-blue wind
Feathers the waves on the orange ocean
On the opposite wall. Behind
Our hunched backs a lady’s devotion,
Naked except for the pelvic region,
Blushes at being the sweet boy’s choice:
Helmet askew, all of his legions
Home in the city, the apple his voice
In these delicate matters of love,
He might well be myself—or a friend
Whose indisputable wish is to prove
Passion perdures where the world extends
Leisure and charm. The beautiful comes,
Someone explained in a letter, before
Everything else—before death and home
And the innumerable glories of war.
Here, in this copied, Italian landscape
Children call Africa, handsomeness fills
Leaf upon leaf of raw umber, a handshake
Damns the Achaeans to one god’s will,
And the rising tide from the opposite wall
Shades the two failures from learning all
Of the ensuing misfortunes. But, love, we
Each night must deal with that orange sea.
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