Bless the infant in the Trianon.
I am perfectly robed as I tell you
my dream of the marbles, my dream
the argument of nutrition, repairing
lost temperature, fluttering passcards
ever the mutual date obscured,
slipper into the colourful campaign
to bring us home. Fog's redundant
breaks not cleared, tea soaked
intimations under palms, sapphire
a hallucination of warranty
and the limits of giving. Please
notice the terrestrial interest
—though for all the skilling on the edge
you'd think me criminally gilt—
trace the elements of covert
kindness, too elementary
to long sustain elation, yet
I'd report the author of the plot
hoping little, reading you a lot.