III.xiv

Inuisus natalis adest, qui rure molesto
et sine Cerintho tristis agendus erit.
dulcius urbe quid est? an uilla sit apta puella
atque Arrentino frigidus amnis agro?
iam, nimium Messalla mei studiose, quiescas;
non tempestiuae saepe, propinque, uiae.
his animum sensusque meos abducta relinquo,
arbitrio quam uis non sinit esse meo.

3.14 O Cosmopolis,

Illness, like sleep, is a mild form of death,
your last ex just a pinch of disaster.
In small dashes no thing’s tough, or a test:
suck it up, dear, and get dinner started.
The countryside, like death, is just smelly
liquamen[1] to wait out in the meantime.
Don’t get worked up, no need to be fussy.
Replace your stock it’s burning! with it’s fine.

What is sweeter than the city? You know.
Bumpkins, frocked and bonneted, are lucky
plain and simple – they call the country home.
Away from you and Rome just sucks for me.

O what I’d give, some vetch or lovage canned,
to leave this vile, miser arable land.

III.xv

Scis iter ex animo sublatum triste puellae?
natali Romae iam licet esse tuo.
omnibus ille dies nobis natalis agatur,
qui nec opinanti nunc tibi forte uenit.

3.15 Blindspot

Late breaking news: I’m coming after all,
so leave the door unlocked, or bette
set ajar
but don’t wait up.
The hall should be just dim enough to make out the shapes.

III.xvii

Estne tibi, Cerinthe, tuae pia cura puellae,
quod mea nunc uexat corpora fessa calor?
a ego non aliter tristes euincere morbos
optarim, quam te si quoque uelle putem.
at mihi quid prosit morbos euincere, sit tu
nostra potes lento pectore ferre mala?

3.17 Hot Flash

Heat wracks my body. No, not that kind.
If it were, you’d be here already.
But listen to me, I’m on the brink of death here, just a little.
Do you care?
If not, neither will I.
I’ll just keep on these meds and menthols
until something happens.  You won’t even notice.

III.xviii

Ne tibi sim, mea lux, aeque iam feruida cura
ac videor paucos ante fuisse dies,
si quicquam tota commisi stulta iuuenta
cuius me fatear paenituisse magis,
hesterna quam te solum quod nocte reliqui,
ardorem cupiens dissimulare meum.

3.18 In a Minute there is Time for a Hundred Indecisions

Yesterday I might’ve seemed perhaps a little

less than usual, lest I be to you, my light, a feverish care

as a few days before I appeared

maudlin, slashed, unsolicited, a dear

and so I left last night alone and you

alone last night were so and left,

that little light, that perhaps word ardor, how seen.