I am enjoying my new (to me) copy of an old book, January, by D. Shapiro. It's brilliant stuff, written and published before the poet had turned 20. This sonnet for example:

First Love

I imagine you dressed up as a gowned Hasid
A blackbearded girl--a girl I might have married
A stick we take to bed and call John in bed
Later a white-breasted Protestant girl to be buried.
Who are you and what cruelty in what theater
Do you still play cello and strip for friends
Atlantic City fingers warmed by the electric-heater
Sun--a decadent iimage everybody understands.

And you smile by the chorus of a Psalm of David
Your smile twirls in the air just before I cry
"Your team is my team" and you change the bid
On your body to a strangulating price I cannot buy.
Slowly walking in Boston with a music note
Your composition stabs me like a bat.