Classic Poem

My Barcelona — the stone pavement shaded deep with weariness
The dry eyeballs are threshed down
The surface of the stone begins to turn
From there, flowing out in turmoil, darkly
Gradually giving forth luster, Diana's ocean
The ancient Mediterranean world
Wrapped in foam, from the bottom of heavy tides
Rising, growing clearer, bronze Hermes
A streak of light shouts on the dark half-face of this god of Hades
His profile devoid of the eye
A wide fig leaf covers
That part of his, once the shining center of fertility
Waves turn, coming closer, the voice of hard labor, of bitter rock salt
The salt, pungent, painful to the lips, the whips of burning heat, cruel to the young flesh
The galley with two decks of oars has sunk
The sunk plates, sunk slaves, sunk necks and armpit hair
The cry that disappeared, Silenus' vain song
Shadows, sailors, pass, the sea wind, Agrigentum
The turquoise sky between shattered columns
The island of palms and olives, the beach for wraiths
The wine that disappeared in the tideways
Rome, people swarming in the Forum
The thick eyebrows of young men selling melons
Jews selling dreams, Athenian male prostitutes
Crucified magnificent slaves, muscles twisting around the nails
Sunset, the wrestlers die
The sandals departed, the Colosseum in shadow
A breeze, the blood and mud greased on the coarse hair
High among their thighs, the fragrant areas wrapped with incense grass
Twin-horned ancient bulls lick the blood spilled on the ground
One of them cries sadly at the sky, the astrolabe
The bulls disappear, and the wrestlers
In my imagination, the ocean, Hermes' face of sorrow, spread over the map of Rome
Near his ear, filing out of night's gate
Expeditionary soldiers in an interminable line
The road leads to the four ends of the earth, the aqueduct spans heaven
Spears glint, in the dust, armor clangs
To Macedonia, to Numidia, and to Hispania, where the sun dies
Here, Hispania, the western limit of the woodblock map of the Roman Empire —
When I think of Barcelona, my dark flesh trembles
— Barcelona, the hidden gold
At the heart of this odd decadent labyrinth
The Ancient World is found unexpectedly innocent
Lamps come to reflect in the sweaty pavement —
Two young men holding each other in the inn's stable straw
Under their soiled underwear, become armored Roman soldiers
Become one shining flesh