the Canals de Provence
the lustful fires he walks; his feet become like bronze,
knees and thighs like silver; and his breast and head like gold.
told him of the matter in between the stars,
That if there were enough of it, the Universe would collapse.
asked me without guile whether this was bad or good,
I told him that it just was; just as a tree was also.
reminded me of the grand impasse, the great misunderstanding
Between Man and Liberty; the problem of the one very hungry God.
on the beach, the sky is almost big,
The palm trees and the lighthouse orange the clouds.
sky that tempts the light off the bay 'til evening,
Sounds of children on the sand, stoked with ice cream.
the haze of cold trees and roses all is wan,
All is wannabee, wants to be until the mauve turns blue.
is a red tip on the gray piece under the wing.
This will do for now, though there is no word for it.
the unnamed object exist. There is a knife wound
In the thigh; it hurts, he limps, freshly bandaged.
you love with a violent passion, all else
You love with a cold flame that sears the flesh.
love for snow shows how creating systems of measurement
Can bring stubborn facts into being and then erase them.
streams, the fluxes of senses and their convergence.
Her sighs, even, were engorged and glowing as they swayed.
were in the same place, stalking, each connected
To another, so that all but strained intercourse was futile.
streams through the ways of webs; read aloud
Find that he was surely right, exposing the sliced flesh.
rubbing of the fingers, the thumb and first finger.
The sign of the transaction agreed upon by nod of head.
sky was so leaden and so gray; I looked and looked,
But could not find the author anywhere, long out of print.
in built mechanism in the brain that knows
Long before; that moves blood; that tightens tendons.
see, I had paid her to play in Barcelona that weekend,
Invested in her inaccessibility except for the transpiring.
world is far emptier than we thought, far emptier
Even than the red eyed blackbird could readily imagine.
her just once, to make very sure that I was real,
Then shrank the size of the print, to fit us both on the page.
then I could see the tops of their heads, guess the down,
The loose limbs cruising by themselves along the Canebiere.
gallery of the imbeciles threatened again, so I wanted
Then to go down to the beach and feel the cold darkening air.
is asleep now. I readily agreed that the best part
Was the climbing of the stairs, the feel of the metal
the soft warm wood under foot, the echoing hall,
The smell of disinfectant and of polish, the roughness
the obsession, addiction, the slave who tied me, forced me
Compelled me to admit the affectionate gesture of the matter.
dry heaves; look, look, over your shoulder. Admit
That you like your rough trade lucid, your lucidity very rough.
is like this, it is the Sunday and it knows.
Omar the generous, the other, smiles with pride.
genius is in his white hat, the smile, no smirk, why
Even the animals of night have it all figured out.
whole life is but a few leaves, but that`s OK.
It is a start. Now I remember almost nothing of the rest.