a body in painis ready for prayeron Fridayso I invited herto come dine with meon Sundayand invent a bettertheory of musicwith our bedthis summerfleet as a secrettold to my pen
you come this morningfrom blue fieldsand backward monthsunseasonable sexlike an ear on a birchbarbarously aflutterand me with my fencemy embers of order
above all things I wishto sit at the table with napkins opentalking in the mother tongue of wonderand so be righted againwith my wife leaning into sleepand the treasure of touch
am I to father a childwith my lady penhead full of troubleand picturespictures picturessick at the riverof gray businessI go out into the nightand talk to herin her cagetelling her she wasthe bird of paradise