Dwarfs dried my thigh.
In the eyes I had
capillaries, a boycott and the
indentation. In the planes
we circled above Bistrica. We
watched it when it was
caught by fire. It blazed like crude
oil. Choory Moory’s wife
swallowed saliva. Soundeded. The
one who shot the film about
green ants was there too.
We went to Miramar.
We took towels. I recall
the learned voice.
Indeed. I returned again along the
inner edge of Albania to that
wooden hut. Again there was Bob Hass.
He told me: Bogomil Gjuzel is an
auto-mechanic in Canada. And my retort:
O, for this you need have a lot of
guts. To wit, the customs-woman frisked
me. I was naked. Like a newborn,
wrapped in a triangle made of canvas.
She lifted it, smelled it. She was
kind. She put it back, it stuck
again. In the nearby hut
were men of letters with sad eyes and
stretched out legs. They all cried.
In the Water Lily, Experienced and Jumped
Three reports cover three different
legs. The sun scares
pallbearers. Whores raise red slabs
onto green tables. Thermo-cows,
a mania from the grave, cut it out!
Honey, I asked you to
hand me the daylight. Did you
bespoke the suit? Did you
wreck Octavio’s bicycle? These tinders
lick the Gothic
arch. Grated windows,
the stuffed lead,
honorific image. Which position
would you take, enjoy?
The Difference Between the Entrance and the Exit
at Francis Bacon’s Retrospective in Museo Correr
O white chapter’s abrasion!
Sparrowhawk, wound yourself!
I’m wrapped in your stole.
The era spun me into
kara luck in the sea common.
You row the sky, you row
the kid. Fir cones whirl in the tiger’s
mouth. Little orbs are crunched.
Huh! How your sweater gleams!
You put it on. You take it
off. Who do I boil with? A mottled
parrot? The real data hit
my head like a true ink. I hardly
stammered out: BTC.
Calm the ball. Berta shut her eyes.
Berta has no eyes now.
Little men will come, wrapped in
sheets, to drown in Maremma.
They’ll bring the fog on their little
braids, they’ll play with
rackets. They’ll have wide eyes,
notches on their foreheads,
and tiny ears like tiny hares.
They’ll roll huge drums
full of volcanoes. The bells
will ring. Wholly softly,
I ran across Trieste, which
turned into surface.
Gombo Circled with a Mattock
You craned the spirit down from
the rails like a crocuta crocuta, therefore
you deserve death. Max Mara,
I merited the little snail.
Deplumed the little snail, drew and
quartered the little snail. This was last
of the fish days. Please stop with
the manors in the underworld.
The sun marked my newborns with
ribbons. Some of them got
confused. Did you eat spools? Mangiare
parrots. Mangiare parrots.
I flew out of the muscle. They
dipped me in the black bowl.
To Lumberjack One’s Own Splendour
The river rolls towards the throat.
The Germans trust their
armpits. I hewed a wooden
fox: the measuring between
the rein and the night. The hour
of the hour gestates
itself. They change its clothes.
They cut its foreskin.
Sometimes it flashes like
a globe. Why don’t you
see the grass, if this is the globe?
On the globe should
be everything. I hatch myself. The grass
doesn’t lose its clearness.
The niches store the sheds of
snakes. The laugh in the wicker
flask, in the grated white musk.
The majority of Bistritzas.
Shells converge on posters and
in animal bladders. On the
fences twist spoor of sheep.
They scratched themselves.
They were cold. Then they went
to their stall. But I slid myself
shut with the chain and leafed
through the monography
of Morandi, until the white smoke
announced the new pope.
We Stretched Him and Realized He is Bulgarian
Eraser, his trunk scrubs monsieur, he’s
stiff from a tall wooden tub carried on
his shoulders. Angles of light plank
the fence. If the rib is bent
a circle is made. The stick. We found him
among leaves in the ravine. He had
a stone on his mouth. Marigold rain fell
on little clouds. Probably they hid him.
Probably they dressed him in the sailing
shirt. He didn’t smoke the pipe.
Braque was not his brother. He also
wore a soosh-kavatz, but pushed it
in the bush. We discovered him on
a family trip, picking blueberries.