She knew just about everyone and loved almost everyone,
including Stravinsky, and was greatly misunderstood.
She relived her life not from notes but from memory.

Deception is necessary. Disguises, too.
When I wrap this cloak around me,
I change into a barefoot, pious fellow

Dream-I-Believe I brought
        out of the night still streaming
                out It was real I was right!

A cool wind blows on summer evenings, stirring the wheat.
The wheat bends, the leaves of the peach trees
rustle in the night ahead.

My mother made figs in wine—
poached with cloves, sometimes a few peppercorns.
Black figs, from our tree.

Spring comes quickly: overnight
the plum tree blossoms,
the warm air fills with birdcalls.

They told her she came out of a hole in her mother
but really it’s impossible to believe
something so delicate could come out of something

Gravedigger of moths,
Prince of bedbugs,
Tuner of the harps of black ants,

Today the sun was shining
so my neighbor washed her nightdresses in the river—
she comes home with everything folded in a basket,

Rest with me under the linden tree. 
I do not have a linden tree.