Near Belsen, after thirteen years,
Low clouds above the meadows shudder.
Below me mustard

Very old bodies always seem to be melting
like fetuses, or flaccid smelly large white lumps
of mozarella cheese. They are as shapeless

Now coming up on scherzo,
simulated situation based on big, big trouble.
Word good as broken-down bond,

        awaiting arrest
sky-high nonchalance
        walk on by (off orange girder)

Centennial of Melville’s birth this morning.
Whale balloons drift up released by priests. 

The white attic rests
among dripping trees

This pen, like your penis,
stirs in my hand:
those two or three kids

The congregation dances perfect golden reels
redolent of sex amid the Sunday chimes;
how sweet, how… symmetrical it all is—everything else.

At the end of a long journey, I can still see that corridor, that moleskin, that warm shadow crossed by breezes pure as small children sent by the sea foam

Be fearful
                if you wish to awaken in yourself the instinct of
                the Beautiful;