Hello, good morning. Hello, meadowsweet
that pinkly lines the river. Hello, book
with deckled pages. Hello, lucky day
from picking up a penny. Lo, I greet
milord the sunshine. Hi, unfocused look
of upthrust glacial mountainhead, display

of winter storefront dazzlement. Hello,
sundogs loping at the edge of sight,
goosedown on a wet and chilly night.
Hi, summer afternoon. Good morning, snow
that drifts us in so we don’t have to go
to school today. Hello there, startled flight
of doves with whistling wings. Hi, time to write.
Hi, ringing downstroke of a cello bow.

I am my own Nude. -Anne Carson

Voluptuosity? Go down.
Cascades, cataracts: fat in a bra,
globes of honey tickled into
some palm, but only Anubis,

lover and coroner, sees the yellow drupes
of cells stacked inside, parts the lips
of the Y-incision most tenderly.
The living see only the juicy

dive, meetly and sweetly, between
strong marked-up thighs. What moving
finger writ these runes? White calves
bellow at night. Painted hide,

and the brown hands of a wicked, wicked witch
on a strapping white ass. All poses are coy.

I got a High John the Conqueroo
trading card in my pack of ten
from the convenience store.

I got root access through you,
root doctor, root guru,
ghost in the UNIX shell.

Penguins taught you and you
taught me. See? How a mojo hand
trails off in rootlets, a taproot

where saxophones divide,
a girl named Truffles brushes the drums
with hairy ginseng from the holler:

you knew these blues, and you taught me well,
chords of the Buddhas unborn.