Reading Hart Crane
Call the emperor of ice cream, your love
intoned, but you tongued at the infinite
apostrophe of height, your genitive
O's not birthing for all that sound. And that
rhythm of his play, all its comedy
concealed, the laughter eluding the frame
you held your subjects into by force--Be
serious!--you were a child, and no rhyme
could bear the sulking syllable you
bent with the weight of white buildings, with all
the humor of him, loosing that through
which you sought high water. Who saw you fall,
or heard the long vowel in the words that veiled
the reasons why his laughter made you wail?
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