Well poets don’t tell the truth much, too busy bathing the peacocks

Walking lonesome in the harbor, Helsinki, spices in the air—

First time I was productively isolate, singing softly

Up river or down the road, all my friends lived far away.

When I think on it now I’m still twenty three among the Baltic gulls

Humming “My Funny Valentine.”

Wind from Estonia blowing darkness against my cheek…

Looking warily at strangers, thinking:

Imagine well of me, oh, and glance just so

To say everything will be OK…

I wasn’t yet patient or experienced, but could tell it so…