Well poets don’t tell the truth much…

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…