Reality is permeable to our taut investigations. The melody of one rose is all symphonies. The experiment of a single tear is every tragedy. Our integration, the integration of poetry And reality, is simple as a sugarcube dropped In dark morning coffee, or the milky smoke Of cream, sweet interfacings of Havana fields And Columbian highlands ground down, Lump and liquid.... The poet on his balcony, in dim moonlight, Utters his liminal sibilances For his gilded ear alone, one candle at his back In which phosphor pages freshly flare; Not for all the humdrum roll-call of humankind In their chiffon sleeping gear and plummy dreams, Does he sing low to stars embedded in his lids. He speaks for himself, but not to himself, Frank affabulations of the summer moon, Honied orb to which all men, lovesick, stick-- Moon, let my inky invocation be Sworn with every susurration of the sea. And so star-clad sugars of self-wish mix With mud-mad grandeurs of our rooted world, Those velvety blood-blacks affianced, via me, With saccharin siftings of the spooning moon.