Tomato soup at four A. M. We seemed to sit upon the floor But, with a feathery discretion, We advised our bodies To make the floor a glistening fundamental Flattened by the walk of centuries. Continuing the advice, We told our bodies to arrange A variation on the floor And give the floor a living Reason for existence. Our bodies, with clandestine movements, Accepted the advice And became the essences of Plato, Almost tempting our flesh To renounce its weight. Our lifted knees were actors Simulating treason to our souls, With their prominence of bone. They were interviewed By elbows that held a light disbelief. Our backs against the cushions Had disappeared, and we did not move For fear that all of us Might rush away through the openings. Our heads were fiercely bent down, As though they felt an ecstasy Of shame at their crudity ... When we returned to the tomato soup It was an insipid fluid, But we drank it indifferently, And it is also possible That an unearthly laugh Peered through the crevices of our eyes, Finding no need for sound. PORTRAITS I. _Stenographer_ Intellect, You are an electrical conspiracy Between the advance guards of soul and mind. Thoughts and spiritual instincts, Profound and unfanatical, Sit plotting against the enmity That seeks to wall them in separate castles... A thought and a spiritual instinct Link themselves for an instant Upon the face of this stenographer. Unknown to her mind and speech A gleam of intellect contradicts her features, And she spies the jest of her relation To the droning man beside her. This incredible news Will be doubted by poets and scientists. II. _Waitress_ Musicians and carpenters Meet upon your trays of food: Aesthetics and the flesh Play their little joke upon dogma, Urged by the rhythm of your hands. Your rouged cheeks slip unnoticed Through the sexless turmoil. The rituals are hastened Lest they become self-conscious... I stop you and remark: “The sylvan story of your hair Is damaged by your rhinestone comb. May I remove it?” Then you stare. The fact that you have been Greeted by something other than a wink Almost causes you to think. You walk away, holding an emotion That skims the lips of many adjectives. Confused, uncertain, scornful-- With none of them fused together. III. _Shop-Girl_ Yellow roses in your black hair Hold the significance Of stifled mystics defying Time. Yellow roses in your black hair Can become to certain eyes The trivial details of emotion. Yellow roses in your black hair Often embarrass passing philosophers Who suddenly realize That they have been furtively snatching at color and light.