Pussywillow,
kiddo,
the bed of a carpenter
wafts years as might
the bed of a banker

barely having a bed
myself,
let's in the foggy damp
of stone overpass fuck,
standing up,
waft into the banker's bed,
edit each other

bring me software
like a sacrificed typewriter
the scribbled lists of a Paris garret
my resume,
our daily excitements

no June but where we first touched
one balding, one so goddam delicate
wonderful! always

merry and bright!

watch me outride Hugo,
strike a match on the
sole of my shoe

You fall in love with people's minds...

This from Hugo, my husband,
as if that were unique,
yet I can think of no other way
nor reason to fall in love.

������������������������... I could lose you

in a hunger
for what has not been experienced.
Yes! The world pigmented, illuminated
by fresh perception is a world
otherwise impossible.

As I dance before this new man,
let the shade slip from innocence,
Henry sees what I want - to be
with people who are alive.

In the kitchen, magicians pour heavy
smoke from glasses of amber heat.
In the bedroom, bohemians indulge
in the intellectual fuck -

two women bend backwards, nude
arches crowned with mounds of Venus.
A third, in the courtyard below,
brushes waist-length hair until it crackles.

Then there is June, always June,
building her illusions
from winter strawberries and caviar,

and dear Hugo anew
as a stranger on the street,

�������������masked and disguised in blue.