Nakedness isn’t guilty,
But it’s never unaware. At night
The white blossoms go on

In all honesty, saying this
As if reaching out to hold your hand
And attest to a truth, my tongue

Knowing that Penn had dabbled, periodically,
in paints, noting the modest watercolor

The cat run over and killed in the street
Came back to life and stood on its feet:

Having a crush was how I existed —
how I spent recess; I wandered
dull fields gone brilliant

In the branches the light

                   so that the limbs

                            go out

I wished you awake for the bird song,
Such a sophisticated bird song at five in the morning,
Like a twelve bar blues, each chorus had a variation—

The cat’s alone
and that allows it
to invent itself

Five times the church bells break
the violet elements to gold;

No one misunderstands my satieties
Once they have had at the Caprichos
Without knowing what they are, that they are,