I always have many flowers—
my neighbor gives them to me.
I seem not to have the strength
to go on with my confession.

That beautiful woman is a Chilean:
she is a fickle woman, an intelligent
good woman, very beautiful. That is
the trouble: I never have the correct

time. You see the sense this is making,
the old Presidential Palace? Always
she is tending the garden with loving
excellence—in one motion, everything

at stake for that instant. Some star
fell down on her and so what.
But it’s not as always, the fickle woman
does not die at the hands of her lover;

many sharing an idea of beauty, beauty
a necessity in every breathful—this is
what she is saying. But it’s not
as always; and if not that need

then another, half-visible, on an errand,
swept along, shape and shadow: use me
and be done with it; tear them down
and build them up—it’s one motion.

Look back, what life has become: the sky
is clearly alien, amazement,
star of my night blasts the subtle shifts
of mood. She is my desperate angel

so why expect anyone to believe,
to keep the myth squeezing itself,
the most sensible of savage choices:
Her soul in its misfire knocked once,

an indelible stamp.