So you’ve written poetry, br And have beautiful scars, like br Burns in the pie-crust of American: br And I’ll write your introduction, br Even though we’ve sold all the trees br And I don’t know you. br I’ve seen one picture of you, br But I will not stare when you come awake br Again under my tents, swooning like br The damp laundry, or the birds br Picked from the dunes by the sky; br And I would lay my arms down beneath br You, to be christened or knighted, br Though you might not think to speak of this br Until the depressions of the next millennia; br And though I should be the dirtiest man br In the bookstore, I will smile even as I buy br Those things they forgot and have fallen into br The vague quarries of such professions: br Though I cannot see it anymore, I am br Published in mutations of sky, and I love you.