The cat’s alone
and that allows it
to invent itself

I sail into the crooked gloom
and steer to bed beneath the shining tent
of paint we are experimenting with

No one misunderstands my satieties
Once they have had at the Caprichos
Without knowing what they are, that they are,

What can I say? I know the textile trade,
Its crafts, its business, inside and out.
Each side of the Atlantic is the same;

If you can't fuck me while I read, fuck off.
You're not the best of what's been thought or said,
Not yet. But youth, with genius, is enough.

"The days are getting long now,"
he said.
"Short," I replied,

Before the opening of the wrought-iron gates,
The gravel walks receive in daily dawns 
Reindentation to fresh herring-bone

Can residents who paint or draw
display art in the lobby?
No, their art might be ugly.

A man in long shorts had a tiny dog
he tossed into the leaves piled at the edge 
of people’s yards, the dog 

A ginkgo leaf like a splayed ass

A begonia leaf is a pebbled surface
          green and burgundy

A long and narrow leaf curls down

All the different methods
          of extending yourself so the sun
          might better touch you

Serrated edges of the teardrop
          nettle leaves

sting your fingers

The nursery labels everything
          and so assigns appearances
          to names I only know from fiction