Strange God, with brown hair like the night,

With the mixed perfume of cantaloupe and Cuban cigars,

Winner of numerous awards, including dinner out of doors,

A saucer of flaming brown rice and the first few minutes past midnight,

I prefer, when incontinent, opium. In the nighttime

The elixir of your kiss or your loving street walkers will do.

When I send my prayers off to you in a caravan

Your gaze follows after with the thieves and the livestock.

Next to your two grand eyes in the soup of the night

Is the singing of demons! They tell me “More poems about flames,”

And “Wrap your arms ‘round me like a river nine times,”

But I can’t! I’m just a librarian!

Beyond the bristling rapids in the middle of the woods,

Fuming over your book sits the Porcupine!