I want to talk to you.
Hence these silly sonnets.
For in some open perfect,
I want to address the sorrows
I caused, especially those in the East Village.
If you give me a folk song,
I will give you everything
from the front door to the cottage moon.
I want to read what you have to say,
more tender than words can me.
The more time that goes on,
the more I feel I was nothing,
but a garden joke of lace.
My lady conversations now
don't find the landing spots that I need to pilot my love.