It's a love poem.
"Serenade."
Love a surrealistic one.
I'm going to read it.
And then we'll break for five minutes
and then I'll read the second half to give you
a chance to stretch or think.
It's called "Serenade."
It's a surrealistic serenade.
We'll get right to it.
What do you want?
You whistle at me from your perfumed window.
I bring you a gift of flax.
I bring you a gift of steam.
You translate them into sleep.
I go from door to key to door and then back again.
Apparently we are caught in ice you
and I, like the spirits of Indians.
Come.
The streets are full of poultices.
The streams flow with rivets.
I traverse bridges which end in fire.
What do you want of Come.
I bring you woven moons.
You answer me with dust and lemon peels.
Yet today you smile.
And I put down again this pack full of ribbons and gold teeth.
Come.
In the century of my birth, I hurl myself
from parapets of grace.
Spiked plants grow from my ribs.
I leave at dusk for Bokhara.
What is your Christian name?
Why do I see you in the knees of stairways?
Have patience.
Some muezzin huge as smoke calls me into your prayers.
I will get by.
[APPLAUSE]