Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,

All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…

Spring, rainbows, ordinary miracles about which nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night

Mute marriages: the ten-ton block of ice obstructing the throat, the heart, the red filter of the liver, the clogged life.

After the teach-in we smeared the walls with our solidarity, looked left, & saw Marx among the angels,

Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming

My broom with its tufts of roses beckoning at the black, with its crown of thistles, prickling the sky,

You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy

Not wanting to write for fear that anything– the passion for the page, the love of carbon ribbons & e… will distract me from your face,

What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…

If it is only for the taking off– the velvet cloak, the ostrich feather boa, the dress which slithers to the fl… with the sound of strange men sigh…

A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,

When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,