I search for pages with a blankened stare

I search for pages with a blankened stare,
Ice flow whitenesses for my dying love;
Rank catarrh of the air-conditioner
Repeats its hoarse assessment of my case:
This room's too cold a place for keeping doves
Who's song's reduced to a stiff, beaked face.

Still the long dry sob of love goes on and on,
Tepid dashes and staccato decimals,
An S.O.S. that radioes the sun:
Drip one molten tear on my punctual small!

Pity the parrot who knows your lines by heart,
Solar source of life and heat, and yeasty lusts
That drop our brains into the shopping cart
Sterile green beside the frozen peas and lists.