Nothing could be predicted. Behind the closed lid, the outstretched hand, what streamers, shocks, accordions of foam!

   I tried using my high position to make everyone wear little hats. 

                                         In Montmartre, far from the sea he loved, crippled 
                                         by arthritis, Corbière nailed up over his chimney 
                                         the dried carcass of a toad.

You are the toy that dies
you are the movie
& the theatre

This ought to be in Russian
Cyrillic and emotional! 
Like “The Poems of Yuri Zhivago”

If you could tell me this sense of digression
And certain proclivity toward suffering, that
This will be settled on some future date, justifying

Ho Chi Minh was our real President
The one we counted on
For right decisions

panels        doors        niches        garlands        keystones
gargoyles        columns        cornices        turrets        trees
chimneys        palimpsests         lamp posts         lace         gates

Some men, who collaborated self-consciously
with killers behind a one-way mirror darkly,
catching their breaths on every errant wind,

On a wooden platform in the center of the room
The young dancer stood, her naked feet in position:
The man would rather gaze at her white feet forever
Than ever hold them in his hands, paying her well