You too got tired of being an advertisement
for our world, so that angels could see: yes it's pretty, earth.
Relax. Take a rest from smiling. And without complaint
allow the sea-breeze to lift the corners of your mouth.
You won't object; your eyes too, like flying paper,
are flying. The fruit has fallen from the sycamore tree.
How do you say to love in the dialect of water?
In the language of earth, what part of speech are we?
Here is the street. What sense does it finally make:
any mound, a last wind. What prophet would sing. . . .
And at night, from out of my sleep, you begin to talk.
And how shall I answer you. And what shall I bring.