The moon wears your face tonight. The whole of Paris, silverspangled, breathes An air redolent of your perfume. Mama Sleeps on the divan. She dreams of you: her Dancing Girl! (We know better. Chambermaids Dream of butchershops.) Meanwhile, I compose Silly rhymes to make you laugh: "Lucia, figlia Di Cassiopeia, how do your ganglia glow?" You are my patron saint of Light! A thunderbolt burns hotter than the surface Of the sun. Fire writhes behind the eyes. When the bars on your window stripe The starfield with shadow and your fingers Stiffen, remember then Your poor blind Babbo. And do not cry: A meadow lies always within Your ken. You have only to murmur "Minerva, Direct me. Show me the path to my green garden. Then take up your pen. And as it was with your "Chaucer's Alphabet," so will it be once more. You'll paint a picture so bright it Will reduce that lanklimbed, hankheaded, Broodybrowed Beckett to a murkpuddle of shame. (Dr. Jung, for his part, will keel over dead.) Then you'll be left to sail above us, spilling Kisses like poker chips While tipping us, pretty, your eversly wink But also I know how kisses aren't all you Sometimes long to loose. The thorn of betrayal Stings your side. "Let the rootrace be rutted, Just once!" is your cry. "We'll see how they take It!" Answer: not well. (I, too, am in that number. The grocer, the drudge, the scribbler of scribbles Are all one. The Emperor of Insects yet reigns.) But your innocence, angel, is disclosed by this fury. You once bore our true image when, at Xmas Dinner, you donned the rags of the Little Tramp Do you recall how your trousers sagged, your Duck feet waddled? "And how a white rose bloomed From the corner of your lapel?"