This is a poem I scrawled late at night, before sleeping. I was already dreaming, though, very tired and spent, too. It has been a summer of such half-thoughts, and free imagination, brought by high heat and simmering light. Mid-summer night's dreams continue now. . . in formless wonder....
Above is a Picasso, title unknown, and on the right a drawing by Cocteau I believe is called Virgin.
How I love who will not have me
How I have such life unhappy
If only mutual affection
were ours - it's enough.
He who rides my rolling current
(the movement he makes rakes planets)
never knowing where he goes
on which surface . . .
Pen to my page,
this I give commanded by
such troubled angels!
Who knows me?
Who desires me?
They aren't the same.
