This is the year of the suicide.
The year the grass dies
and does not rise again. The year

OK, it’s sunny, otherworldly, skintight, 
where we’re flabby and clouded over, pining away 
under layers of jealousy, detachment, the compost heap

In the old days there were characters
and settings: if you wrote snow,
you could see wetness and whiteness

I am unable to say from what place, from which dream,
anything comes.

                If you were to commit a crime . . .

Strange that he mentions the muses.
Demons, yes. God, of course.
But harlots? Perhaps

Somehow I know, I know these things,
such as when I will have a shepherd’s
bad luck, forever the same horrible creed
of a hunter, and my heart starts to bleed.

You are my flower, my lips, my heaven.
Embrace in your glance the seven grains.
I bear them, until I collapse.

Is the little bird torn apart 
by a paw? Lights switch on, at least 
one juxtaposition between 

I post the sign
late in spring
drawn on sewn skins

These were your sighs,
your toss,
the listing yoke