Too Much Exquisite Petrarch

No more loud cry;
death is dumb.
Laura is lost;
this sun.

The tortoise of creation
marks time and space,
supporting in
smoky fog summer
Babylon and Avignon;
fun cities
in summer's makeup.
By the river
they tore down the
whorehouse streets
and like Dagon slain
among the gantries
the quaking guts
paint pots of color
over all.

Laureate, Laura is green;
a green tree,
a green dress,
a breath of air.

La muerte es una mujer,
Laura by name.
More and more
she loves me, 
by the lake,
by the long cool shore;
March, sunless, lifeless,
now reigns;
no runaway wave
rolls rainbows by
in the boathouse;
the waters still
as the tomb.
                      We're cold.
Night comes and
the evening star.

Alluring, my Laura,
colorless skull
in her sunglasses,
becomes queen of
the ravishing moon;
around her aura 
violet lunas, pale lilies
in magnificence flourish.
On rough temple walls
a hundred enchanted animals
beckon and betray;
but May, spring's troubador,
admiral of summer,
forsaking languid
Laura with her tears,
beseeches naked Thalia
in the bath.
Soft maid, wet
hands full of flowers,
yields flesh to
his impositions;
rainbows, breasts, 
leap
like fish
in the sky.

A loud cry,
a quick change
in the dome and
uncouth summer,
ever-born,
her perennial child
quickens.

Hot times, hot tears
deride
the common sense of spring;
leave Laura, leave;
we're done.