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Poem	Little soul, little perpetually undressed one, Do now as I bid you, climb The shelf-like branches of the spruce tree; Wait at the top, attentive, like A sentry or look-out. He will be home soon; It behooves you to be Generous. You have not been completely Perfect either; with your troublesome body You have done things you shouldn't Discuss in poems. Therefore Call out to him over the open water, over the bright Water With your dark song, with your grasping, Unnatural song--passionate, Like Maria Callas. Who Wouldn't want you? Whose most demonic appetite Could you possibly fail to answer? Soon He will return from wherever he goes in the Meantime, Suntanned from his time away, wanting His grilled chicken. Ah, you must greet him, You must shake the boughs of the tree To get his attention, But carefully, carefully, lest His beautiful face be marred By too many falling needles.
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