There is a chortle which is the chord of three ideas struck at once: a man carrying a hatrack; a wishbone in the center of an enormous plate; an idiot watching a snowfall. 

I strode sideways through adoring crowds, till the day my perfect profile crashed through a storefront.

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