That day in winter: the rows
of shabby cages, stacked
like death-camp bunk beds,
in which tiger kittens gamboled,

Love, here we stand at the beginning
of our life together, and I find myself
thinking of a hot summer night

You could see windstorms and a piece of floating string
making their way to the school
for hours—you could watch the sun,

Smoking a dart, I said.
I just met my first bird.

I know you, smaller than Circumference
Of Bone—smaller than Orbit—than Silver

Flask in Pocket—more delicate than Mints

Later, we will notice a vast communication
between separate selves. We will learn
in the colors of our lover's body

A world already named, already deposed
in the urge of his stressed
consonants, vowels slack:

They gave me a choice I didn't want: the fate
of a twenty-three-year-old man named
   Frank Spencer Robertson,

Even I can see the flowers are up. I take
like wild vine to my bed. And may I have
a word with the miser measuring out my joys.

Six years have gone since I have been loved
by you. All appearances have been more or less
phantom. There is a boy, now, applying for your job.