Het is warm. En weekend!

Tell me,
Was Venus more beautiful
Than you are,
When she topped
The crinkled waves,
Drifting shoreward
On her plaited shell?
Was Botticelli’s vision
Fairer than mine;
And were the painted rosebuds   
He tossed his lady
Of better worth
Than the words I blow about you
To cover your too great loveliness   
As with a gauze
Of misted silver?

For me,
You stand poised
In the blue and buoyant air,
Cinctured by bright winds,
Treading the sunlight.
And the waves which precede you   
Ripple and stir
The sands at my feet.
Prettig weekend! En be nice.

Het is weekend. De traditie van het weekend kent een lange geschiedenis, en een hopelijk nog langere toekomst.

History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had —
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends —
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose —
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.