Hermione, Helen, Hilda, I have been,
my pencil picking from inside a weighted
statue, or tree, my skin stiffened, mated

Everything on the outside is the same this morning. On the
   outskirts of Kiev,
our farmland overturned, the cows' mouths grinding in

Niccolo is restless in his bed. He wants
to run, wants to cut out over the humped
Italian countryside while the fields are still

Now that I am up here in the sky I can see
The mare di San Tommaso is a puddle of ink,
A hierarchy of imperial blue tints, tempting

As a stunted woman (you might say
stunt) my body is every day
ready to explode in some crazy way.

They have affairs. They rarely stop to think
until they're begging for a second chance.
We love and learn we sometimes need a drink.

Is there a secret map of the lives of men
In the slow drift of stars and clouds of stars?
Can I build a house out of hydrogen

There are worlds, unwieldy, dreadful,
Difficult to grasp, just pick one up
And it grasps you, its grip of iron;

There are days I can understand
why you would want to board
broad back of some ship

What do you make of that odd one by the door,
his silk top hat and greatcoat folded
neatly beside his chair, a sketchbook flapped