who can't stay long,
who flees when the trees come alive.
For the painter and the poet,
and the dark haired hippy,
whose G's sometimes come out like K's.
Who knows things,
those secret things,
things that light up the shadowy nooks and crannies
Who explains to me so well.
in infinite star-sign enchantment,
She in stillness, impossibly in motion
which is to say, the source of some beautiful slow vibration,
that One which stands out to dance against all other vibrations of this universe;
that One possessed by few.
For the Italian girl wandering,