So we're going to have a brief question and answer.
And by we I mean, you're going to answer.
I'll prance too.
OK prance.
I don't prance, so we're a good--
yeah, we're a good combination.
A good division of labor.
OK.
So if you have a question, just raise your hand.
I'll come to you.
Take a few.
Can you read another love poem?
Yeah.
For real?
You work here so I guess we have to do it, right?
[LAUGHTER]
I love your love poems.
So I've spent a lot of time in Prague.
And so this is a poem from Prague.
Really?
To read a love Poem Put a cough drop in my mouth.
The bells-- the title, this title could go.
So if you have any suggestions let me know.
"The Bells of Prague."
I never meant to break.
But street lights dressed her gold.
The curve and curve of her shoulders.
The hum and hive of them.
Moon glossed pillory of them nearly felled me to my knees.
How can I tell you the amber of her?
The body of honey, I took it in my hands.
Oh city where hands turned holy.
Her city where my hands went undone.
Gone to ravel, to silhouette, to moths
at the mercy of the pale of her hips.
Hips in that early night to light
lit up to shining sweet electricus,
to luminous and lamp.
Where ached to drink I did till drunk.
Where in her rocked the dark Zikmund.
Her, by then, a cathedral tower.
One breast, rose window.
One breast, room of alchemists where from
her mouth came tolling the music of yolk and crown,
of waste and sway.
Wanting her was so close to prayer I should not.
But it was July and in a city where
desire means upstairs we can break each other open.
The single blessing I had to give was mouth.
So gave and gave I did.
Every night has a woman for temptation.
Every city has a fable for fruit.
Like in the castle gardens where jackdaws waited
glaze eyed along the walls for a taste of new.
Of figs unsweet yet.
Yet beryl-bright enough for wonder.
Not jackdaw but not different, I.
How I destroy myself on even the least of the sweetest things.
The salt of her burned not long on my tongue but like stars.
I never meant to break but love the hymn and bells of her.
Even now there are nights I climb the narrow stairway
to an apartment at Hradcany Square.
Where a door opens to a room.
And the shadowed fig of her mouth split, sweet, open.
And in me ringing.
That was love-ish.
[APPLAUSE]