Your crooked beauty, Hugo,
maims us. You are all
that hurts. Taking us
off guard with your virile
grace, good looks. But you're
crooked, you're bad news.
So you brought in the new
year that already had no good
in it for me, exiled
from a loveless country, took
what you wanted from its hiding place
among dirty clothing --30,000 liras--
then ground your teeth. I saw madness,
Hugo, death in your heroic
stony features, bones more enormous
than clubs, murderous jaws, the unseeing
statue stare of senselessness. Now
what's the use? At that price
your beauty is too expensive, leaving
neither regard for feelings
nor the rent.
Rome, New Year's Day, 1954
Harold Norse
from "The Love Poems: 1940-1985"