There are seven hundred
forty six thousand
eight hundred and thirty one kinds
of insects in the world, which is exactly the number
of words in our
language, and I can't
find one to tell you
when you hug me
with your clavicles
only, inclining the rest
of your body delicately
away from mine like
a maiden aunt from
Des Moines, down to
the peck on the cheek.
What kind of way is that
to hug a bear? We
were lovers once, now
if your maps show a place
between Romance and Indifference
I'd never know that either.
Still I publish my address
like a clown guillotined for dinner
or little boy scorned
grown tired of looking in
the mirror of your pride,
my body tipped back too
as if it remembered falling

-- figuring you'll think it
a shame he didn't end it
right there, it made such
a nice poem without
trailing on, now what
shall I eat next a mayfly
or a cloud.

for Sky, 8/75