Now I like then to read one more poem,
and as I have been most often characterized as a love poet,
because when you can't think about anything else
to write about, love is always a good act, isn't it?
So I will read a love poem, and then I will finish.
And this poem is quite old.
And it's one of the few poems that I keep around
that I like to keep reading.
It's about four years old.
And it was about a different girl--
one previous to my life.
So I usually read it when I go somewhere else to read.
But it doesn't have any names in it
so I needn't have told you that.
"The Sunday Palm".
I love your mystical overnight opening of the flower--
Autumn purple-reflected lights in your noonday
Sunday eyes so that I catch my breath.
Lungs full of midnight air, the overnight opening.
I swear there are pieces of pollen in the air you breathe
into my lungs.
And your hair--
I am mystified by the forehead dance of air
in the night verdant.
I feel the light blood in and around my legs and arms.
Lonely this morning is good.
Lonely this morning in the swab of sunlight
is the personal generation of the I love you in the night.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]