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…
