At first puzzlement, then joy.

My baby in the making—surely my last—
would, like a ferry heading for a wharf,
know what to do along the way.

I’ve been grooming you for years.
                           Now I’m asking you to go

through the gate unafraid

I have been courting sleep
and catering to its taste in nightgowns.

I have poured it heady, vintage wines

Sweat, wicked kissers, in your stark
Hate of the whitewashed day;
By the queen-swarm of a breast

The sun is a drum
                 the moon is a cymbal 
The flow of time is caught in a cup.

If maybe we could form a little group
Say something like Bloomsbury and we all
Could write biographies of each other

Into Miami at night then out over gulf island and jungle

We had traveled so fast that we arrived
on the right bank of the RÍo de la Plata

The shadow of the photographer reaches over
almost to the wee tyke in a sombrero who listens
to the music these horny hardrock miners are making

The moon is sick. I fear she'll die
from lack of love, from poverty
and homelessness, lost in the sky,

What they had for ideals
must persist in the taut set
of that rearing horse's head,