" Mysterious voluptuary, "
I cried,
" older than Silenus,
more surprising
than the carving
of a Viking ship
on a glaciated peak
in Turkey. . . . "

There I go again
in that high-falutin babbling
You'd think I was
in the presence
of a god,
irradiated,
sublime,
What a bookish business!
Why am I pretending?

From this sight
of myself
as golden boy
I fled
but could not shed
the Platonist
who plays
with nature
and carries on
a strange androgynous
affaire with women.