No ordinary salon-like beauty around you.
No fang, no anchor. No pornography to speak.
No apparent silver skies sunning the swamplands,
No “once-in-a-while” while the others drink.
No yellow-brown, no rake, no vegetable patch.
No measurement of the creek nor body removeless.
No peace that passes. No peace. No terror, no

Warm breeze nor cool, no monument to commemorate,
No summer house. No calculated malevolence,
No photograph entitled Sea-Foam with Bathers nor
Any painting entitled Bathers’ Legs with Sea-Foam Being Swept
    Away by the Tide While No Man on Earth Notices How
    Beautiful She Is, My Darling Once Loved, My Honey Plum,
    My Apricot.
No bridge connecting the capitals.
No snow yet the strong hint of snow in my nostrils.
No park where to swing. No bench I can leave you

And be back in a minute to find you still there,
Nude in the evening, knowing us alone, eagerly
Waiting for me, waiting for the world now finally
To be the garden of dreams and there you are I am.
No wonder there’s someone waiting. No permanence
And so impermanence, the logic of a mind in love.
No garden. No dream. Simply what is and is enough.