One of two things, the sweeter of which
Is bitter, uncorrected, held up
By the heat of the ant march
On morning highways and the enuresis of the mind.
The other, the less sweet, the lie
Of the needle, the thread
You wove around me
So softly, this, I give you back a history
Of ideas, a parrot with first words
And no one around to hear it,
An amputee and a rosary
Whispering possibility, impossibility,
One leg walking, the other
Space-walking . . . I am none of those
And neither sweetness. I am
Your favorite night-hour, the one...