I have one thousand scarves.
I want to be a rodeo rider.
I bury my tea leaves.
I am hybridizing a red rose with a redder rose.
Once I fell in love with an assassin,
which would have been all right,
except I hated how his skin smelled of knives.
My volumes of piano etudes, sonatas, nocturnes,
preludes, fugues, variations on a theme,
scherzos, valses, and concertos,
stacked one upon the other,
would total four feet seven inches high,
although the volumes are dispersed to several locations,
and some are hidden even from myself.
I play the piano every afternoon from four to five,
and afterward drink a cup of mint tea
and eat a single piece of almond shortbread.
I am growing an almond tree. I scent my environs
with almond oil.
I sometimes dream that my children are friendly
with dangerous animals.
Today I met with a student who smelled of candy and flowers.
Once I picked squash beetles from my plants by hand.
Once, I lived in a village where the migrating butterflies
covered the shrubberies, the walks, the pavement.
In my heart of hearts, I am judging you,
but only as practice for when I become a judge.
In my heart of hearts, I judge myself,
but only as practice for when,
in my heart of hearts, I judge myself.
Primary are the colors of all the walls
of my proto-crypto dream house.
