One Fine Spring Day

I'd like to go on record.
I'd like to find a "ready foreigner."
I'd also like some of those
ho-hum photophobic Satanic red seeds
William Blake included with each book
of poetry he sold (hard-to-find ephemera!)
Where else but Antarctica
could one procure such unconcern
as one finds in Viennese composers,
hence I want to go there as well.
Oh, just add it to the mountain
of ambiguity we call our love.
I heard the distinct sound of seagulls
on the telephone so I knew my lover
was lying to me. It was a vicious moment,
like finding a Jorie Graham poem in the New Yorker
in the bathroom of someone you despise.
I suddenly dashed by the others, past myself,
and raced into a grand preference
which was posing as a human casino
and one of the lost Russian Grand Duchesses.
He had a lot of body hair, almost like Borat.
I had to go outside to clear my head
of your pipistrelle-like fucking regimen.
A young girl was writing a paper
on lovely Homeric traffic, resting on elbows
like Sapphic wingbones, under our confetti trees.