A LETTER TO JAMES MERRILL,1980

When nothing
but life is in peril
in death and sex
with a letter out
to James Merrill
as he is drinking ale
under the stars
in Biaritz
or at Yale
or on the balcony
at the Ritz
singing to himself
Cole Porter lyrics
or new panegyrics
in his inherited wealth
telling us a dream
of a poet
having or taking a shot
at the political scene
in Hollywood,
simply James Merrill
be good at your poetry
in your academic hood
from praxis and practice
filters as he reasons
with the bread of rhyme
buttered and preferred
with the raison d'etre
in your taxi dream
with reasons
of the inaccessible
in a metamorphosis
of oxygen of your heart
from the digitalis
spilled from your limousine
in a foxglove muscle part
that only God could guess
into a lonely heart of love
you will confess in French
in your past literary art
will heavily weigh in
at your last bench press.