Inside myself with glee of me I sing.
I build atonal choral club of one.
Within my skin I harmonize this spring;
I buried habit in apparel spun
from caterpillar dreams. Now showers bring
anointment to the gardens, as the sun
makes art of dust. I’m looking through a wing
of color at the opus I’ve begun.

The belladonna’s eccentricity,
ingesting now to stand in August nude,
appears no more improbable to me
than my intention. There’s an attitude
of order, like a Seder in my heart,
that I am a progressive work of art.