“In the Greek audience, fourteen thousand people sat down at the same time, to see a play … And nobody can tell me that those people were all readers of the New York Review of Books!”

on the windowpanes 
on the porcupine’s skin 
on the curtains 

It was no more than the description of a burst of rain 
and handkerchiefs of lightning which burned the secret of trees— 
then why did they resist her?

A day will come, lamenting, I hear,
When bright no longer with thrones, fires, tears,
My eyes which once incandescent ruled

In the world of friends, where travel is slower,
What do you do there, in the world of rain?
Who shares the segments of your tangerine?