I wish the stone lady would come to me.

Parakeet or no parakeet

the night is a vial of lighterfluid.

And I have been good, composing the perishable song

of my childhood: one dollar, one frond

meekly but loyally exploding the oath of circles.

I have been the best wound a diamond ever knew.

But what can I do for you? Write an encyclopedia

to which the least gnat could gain entrance?

I love you and I do not love you, perambulating utensils,

street names. An old man is giving mirrors

to a young girl. The meek have inherited the Aypaper.

The past is more present than this moment.

I am drinking at a spring, my skin

is red and white. A little burning sensation,

a little joy I leave forever.

Oh well, I keep singing: I sing the song

of utensils, and there is one of street names,

and one of the names of dead pets.

The next day I am giving mirrors to a young girl.

I give free shoes for life to a stone lady.

She walks on air, she walks near the earth

in a region called the cryptosphere.