The apes I lead down Collins Street
are weeping:
seven circles they have traversed
to greet me.
The only traveller on the road
was Dante,
with sour breath and saintly logic,
gaunt and concentric.
‘From the Rose in Hell that bleeds for me
you are come’
he said, and the distance took him,
so proud, so proud.
They sing yet of that miracle
in my business hours,
but the wonder is worn and is gone.
My dead powers.
apes I lead down Collins Street,
dear Dantes in reverse,
you have cursed me with your blessing,
and blessed me with your curse.
