I WRITE ON ETHER ( woke sweating and scribbled like she wrote through me nonstop; just a few days after)
It is blissful, this life, stolen!
Why did they not expect that this we would?
I chose Eden again: a Middle-Eastern
like the former foremost Omar Khayyam,
if, with more than a loaf of bread, and wine.
Wordsworthian country: nearer Robert Frost,
perhaps near some provincial Canadian
poet, who actually has a Russian father.
Do not tell me you still do not know who I am!
I know they all said no, it can’t be true.
Judda knew; heard Dodi say he was
ready to leave all girls to live with me.
He also watched a movie work the plot out.
Maybe you who disbelieve, these things, should
read its history instead of those thrillers.
I don’t suppose – none of you –imagined, if
if it was not Simpson, but impotence?