Because distance becomes tumescent in the heat
the haze erases buildings out of walking range.
We’ve considered walking as far as the backyard

Knowing that Penn had dabbled, periodically,
in paints, noting the modest watercolor

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.

Please chortle everywhere for me
If you love S-E-X (sans E).

"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

I’ve inherited famine.
Taste, a gluttony: my mirrored crawl.
The women of my line dwell in fractions,

A choreographed wanting
from thin, soured soil, this perfect
endurance: the grapes