It’s like something breathing
its last. God, it’s a lonely sound.
Pacific fog is blowing in.

Beautiful little bitch
with your fine bones,
thin and sweet ears,

When I am 12,000 miles from her
she will take her head
and throw it off a cliff. 

the only difference
now is that I’m an incurable romantic with an
incurable wound.

The one-armed man
made six cottage windows for each door,
although he did not want to see his cars

The devil, for one, is a philanthropist.
He gave so much

It is the sort of clock that in ringing might waddle across a dusty dresser and fall into a drawer of luminous socks. The sort that might escape, given half a chance.

    At the center of the city I come upon a hill, at the top of which is a very large bird. I see it resembles an eagle. Though it’s about 14 stories high, it’s as docile as a rabbit. Its foot, I see, is tied to a stout nearby building. The rope used for this purpose is thick, the knot alone having the bulk of a cottage, or a pleasant bungalow.

I have the last pack of cigarettes in the world; but no matches. I am in the bedroom, which has an enormous window, so I have to keep my body between the cigarettes and the window. Everybody is in the other room with the matches. I try to think of some disguised way of asking for matches without giving away my secret.

I took the trip just to try it
in spite of warnings from friends
about over-cooked borsht, dreary