My friend is translating Shakespeare.
He reads pa**ages of living Hebrew
on a night asleep as usual, and I
have the chill blaze of boredom,
the torpor of a frightened city.
I keep thinking
of the crude unripeness of things,
of the meaning of So What.
It would be good
If the flighty cherry buds
and the cool of receding waves
were taken away from me.
Lacking that, I pray Someone
let me be
like Julius Caesar slain,
or Hamlet felled by his riddle,
and my loves buried
beyond all sleep and waking.