I'm going to skip most of the bloodshed
but I want to read this one more kind of affectionate poem
tonight and then a couple at the very end.
This one is called "Your Nose."
It's addressed to the lady's nose.
It is a snail that hesitates on a hedge under eucalyptus.
It is the fist of a new child.
It is an accurate nose like an adding machine
powered by perfect electricity.
Yet it has no cords.
It does not run on batteries.
It is an observatory for observing moons and planets.
I watch it revolve.
It is a birch bark canoe Indians paddle.
It is the egg of a demonstrable bird.
Do not sit on this nose.
It might hatch.
When I tell the nose about the nose, the nose laughs.