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What thoughts I have of you tonight,
Walt Whitman,
for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious
looking at the full moon
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras!
Whole families shopping at night!
Aisles full of husbands!
babies in the tomatoes!
--and you, Garcia Lorca,——
what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman,
childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys
I heard you asking questions of each
What price bananas?
Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,
and followed in my imagination by the store detective
We strode down the open corridors together
in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes,
possessing every frozen delicacy,
and never passing the cashier
Where are we going, Walt Whitman？
Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)（
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade tfo shade,
lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways,
home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father,
graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have
when Charon quit poling his ferry
and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
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