To dream of your ardor
is much joy and much happiness.
Your ardor tells me that
I am making a mistake
by not taking hold of what
is offered to me.
What I mean when I say
“your ardor” is stenciled on
the air that surrounds
your big face. The force
of your ardor pushes strangely.
All that matters now
is your ardor. It solves
a most formidable equation.
How old is your ardor?
I think it was born when
it met me.
You should heed your ardor.
It will scoop you out, little melon:
Your ardor as good as its master
Your ardor tomorrow and your ardor yesterday
Your ardor in January
Your ardor dripping sharp as vinegar
Your ardor dripping pale as ashes
Your ardor with its quick reply
Your ardor and your hot hard argument
Your ardor with a hatchet
Your ardor drinking and talking
Your ardor local and authentic
Your ardor of lost fame
Your ardor that hits the button and initiates
Your ardor stronger than your pride
Your ardor in squalor
Your ardor that squeaks
Your ardor that spends and spends
Your pen is my lure.
Your ardor my wire.
The night your ardor first beset me I cried
“Zyer! Oh, zyer!”
Who cares what I meant.
I don’t retain facts.
We hate facts, don’t we, they never did a thing for us.
Behind the screen of your ardor
lies the globe of the Earth
above which the eagle can be seen
soaring up toward the sun, which
has my face. It grins high in the purple sky.
On either side stand two allegorical figures,
the Way of Virtue and the Way of Vice.
Your ardor comes on like a pun,
making the most of
all possible significances.
Your ardor so close now to my ardor.
Our ardors twitch, so sensitive to control.
I just want your ardor to have fun in there!
What next, what next, oh ardors?
Here it is.
Here’s what we call the Red Spot.