Found Poem: John Updike's 13th Novel, pages 74-75

A walkway connects the front garden, where the leaking air conditioning is propped up
With the soaking quarto of my heart. You are making bar syrup from your bottomless eyes--

Exotic fruit. Overhanging a fountain, green-flecked frogs, where a child plays, I see this moment

Is strained into frosted glass, that is, the moment we are not getting it. Retreating to Flame trees

Foreign arms, falling on faraway paths, and the soaking quarto I extract is bottomless, before my eyes.

This is our Book of Days, and your beaded collar, with warm gray-green tones, wrought the weight
Of a hand around my neck. The moment you are not getting me, hence the retreat to flame trees
Lining an avenue, and with not just women we are speaking of. Anyone confers the space to spread out

And create, and these are our outward views on both sides of the house, which wrought the weight
Of years. Admirably composed, with each abandoned prize, we grow absolutely buried in, or cocooned?
It was like going back in time, when we walked into the house, but improved with the space to spread out.

In our handmade house, a hand gages the trident points--in an umbrella stand, of course--of some sea king

Trawling with a rusted hulk, and these thoughts lure me out of the reverie, and your breath, that cocoons me.

A serpent power is awakened again, I find, in austerities, literally weeping out impurities you always suspect,

Tainting the vision of our Floss Silk Tree shading the afternoon. I try to frame the cycle's geometry, the sea king

Salt-ragged, septic to all concerned, nevertheless fills my thoughts. I do not like moving furniture in this room.

Your subtle body slinks sideways, through French doors, colors my thoughts, Kundalini, of other hedges, too.
For one constant, she sleeps at the base of the spine, and undergoes combustion of the same suspected impurities
Clouding our true reflections, and making something very unique in this room. So, it affords another sight-seeing trip.
Also in this chakra recoils the creature I gave to you, sapped the seed, and in the clutch of your fingers, uprooted to life.

For one constant, I must know you. Sleep at the base of my spine, undergoing combustion of the same impurities,

To burst into exotic fruit. And overlooking a rock fountain, green-flecked frogs, I, at one moment, I thought I would
Leave, with everybody wanting a piece, but I noted in the lotus, with their water-lily-like flowers, the creature you made,
And a walkway connects. The front garden, where the leaking air conditioning is propped up, is waiting for you, some Wednesday, baby, when you can take an extra half-hour.