My thoughts hop, alight and rub Their feet nosily like cicadas tonight. Night air after rain taken on the tongue Tastes like cool white wine poured from The green glassy demijohns of water oaks.

Does their monotonous two-note call reach You there, slipping lightly, between The bars of New York's traffic? Like a doleful dog, Which misses the hand that feeds it, I tempt My life back to this room with a picture Book I was thumbing through, to put off Sleep, on Bella Tuscany…

Here I would have reached over to Poke you, and laugh at your fantasy Of watching Il Positino with someone Named Pinocchio – that name since You like licking noses to show Affection and pleasure…

Noumenon, a word in italics floats out Of the text submerged in drowsiness. I take it, and embroider it to your name; A word, which in my mind too, is A thing that stands in its own light…

After that the line turns to yellow jackets Wrestling, tearing off wings, carrying off heads. I can see your ears perking in attention as You read this. What a strange and strong locus Of love this is, shaped like that tornado funnel Of an antlion, towards whose center all of My thoughts seem to fall…