Square sunlight on a square green field Shows in a polluted puddle a perfect sky reflected: The ordered boskage of the public park blesses All those whose disordered hearts it caresses. Love, with her careless powers Marks or marrs our unable hours Until desertion's our proof of having been touched; Although the matter is little, the feeling is much. Crossing that out, I then passed A dead house with nothing to recommend it, Solitary and unstately on the grizzled grass And thought again about my sonnet: Love's a whitened house with thin ivy trim, Red roofing tiles almost caved in; Its got attic eyeots to let out the stale air Ninety long years had inheld with stale cares. Soon I topped a big crooked hill that tapered, And unsteadily almost drunk with the magnificent view Settled down sweating to my dark square of paper, Carefully writing while the sky was askew: Love, which soaks up all connotations, A paranoid obsessive of boozy inflection Will cringe at each hiss, puff at ovations, And in light looks divine heavy temptations. A garter snake having easefully transgressed My naked left ankle, I stood as I Xed out the rest. One quarter's still blank; I'll try one more time. Perhaps my tongue-tied Amour is a mime? Love, the anaconda banded to the brow Compresses all meditations into raw howls, Cancels all occupations, the well and the dour, And contracts imaginative maybe into definite now. All of the objects (the snakes, the sonnets) Distributed like rhymes in this Lover's Park Endure the warm unlacing of the afternoon yet And stay in stricter order until after dark When darkness grants us all all the dark wishes No acquaintance of daylight would ever wish us.