When I am finished painting my portrait
I would like to be able to smile,
and hold my breath only when I want to,
only when it means that flowers wilt of their own accord,
and the moles apologize for the existence
that they cannot help or change.
There is no distinguishable moment
when the last arm of the sun folds back
to touch another part of the world;
there is no distinguishable moment
when a woman begins to desire,
or when she is tired of being in love.

The hornets are angry because we took their nest away
--I know how they feel--:
we ignore them, roll up our windows,
and drive away.
Occasionally, one clutches the side mirror the whole drive
and gets dropped off in a parking lot on the other side of town.
And I wonder where they go.
They wander instinctively aimlessly,
searching for the hive that we disturbingly crumpled
and drove away, for which their bodies
prevent any understanding on their part.

I'd like to believe in a psychocosmological sunrise,
where the flowers
will for the strength of their own stems,
or weakness;
but thick clouds still rain,
and rich soil still feeds,
and the flowers grow like beautifully scented fungus
humoring our yearnings for solitude.
All aesthetic appreciation is the enjoyment of solitude.