I’ll float on my brains for you,
my worries are all drowned
in letters sent in a bottle to you
that sank before I did,
and the telegrams I sent by April’s birds
have reached you anyway!
Let me stand inside your fire
till my cunning is dry and brilliant
as an old foxtail,
take me to bed in your hair
so your daughters abroad in the fields of sleep
may thread their needles
or fill their skirts with wild lettuce.
My tobacco-dyed fingers will be amber-colored
long after the last curl of smoke
from my tongue has left you, my friend,
weightless above their thighs.