“All the birds come home to roost,” the old

fantasist wrote. But fantasy is fact

these star-touched Afternoons. Time bends to gold,

or ductilizes. Skip the second act

is all I ask of you, my nenuphar:

Book passage. Sail down heaven’s cataract

and race the sun in some canopic jar

a while. I’ll pay your fare and have you home

by dusk. Though dusk depends on where you are,

and I’ll be dying here beneath the dome

of seasons while you plummet from the clock

and wager on what church or hippodrome

will be in ruins when you reach the dock.

Take time to gentle the remembered air

that has forgotten you. Then come and knock

and join the exhibition gathered there,

around my bed — old lovers come and gone,

and those the rush of years has yet to bear

into my arms, all sent to greet the dawn

as I’d send you. A year in amber. Bide,

and take your place among the pantheon,

and I’ll revere each time-unravaged bride

in turn, then take my leave. (And leave my trove,

of course; you won’t go hungry. I’ll provide.)

The last to take my offer? Oh, she strove

a moment with it, but we fetishists

are eloquent when rich. Her rocket hove

toward Pleione’s daughters and their cobalt mists

a month or two ago. The thought of her

as fresh in seven decades puts my guts in twists

of wild anticipation. Don’t defer –

I’m wilder for you, and the evening’s cup

is brimming yet. Come make a brilliant blur

of memory for the starways; drink and sup

and say you’ll while my lifetime in the cold

of space — or there’s no way I’ll get it up.