Parks smolder like little girls upset for Valentine’s br Day; br And I go out from their Sabbath School Grottos and watch br Them French Kissing fresh Thom’s in the parking lot; br And they last for so long, until once again they go back inside br And start out anew: br And I am left alone in the gray undertones of the pines: br My shoes are almost gone, br My sweet eyes hung over like censers hung up on hat racks, br Their chains the new somnolence of an opulent cat: br And I wonder about you, and where you really live: br I already know you get up every day and attend your work like br Love, br But where you really live, I don’t know: I will never know who br You are, or looking up, who is traveling with you on your airplanes; br I cannot explain enough for you: How I have failed in the easiness br Of the air-conditioning, how I am especially failing for you tonight; br But I once fenced and beat an Olympic fencer, or his son br Before I ran away to Michigan, but now I am myself all beat, br And the words just come, but they are not the words that were br Best meant for you; and you are off again in your night br In your rose colored states of love; and I know to whom you give br Your body to every night, and whom washes your clothes in the br Grottos of blissful doves, but I still don’t know whom you br Really love.