When the czar arrives the audience is still, as though he still had the power to become flesh. This is a silent film, so when the czar speaks a card covers the screen. It says, “I decree the death of one hundred, no, two hundred workers.” The workers put their hands in front of their faces; this is the film-maker's image of fear, his idea of a dog with his tail between his legs, of the hiss of the cat.

OK, it’s sunny, otherworldly, skintight, 
where we’re flabby and clouded over, pining away 
under layers of jealousy, detachment, the compost heap

In the old days there were characters
and settings: if you wrote snow,
you could see wetness and whiteness

I am unable to say from what place, from which dream,
anything comes.

                If you were to commit a crime . . .

Strange that he mentions the muses.
Demons, yes. God, of course.
But harlots? Perhaps

You are my flower, my lips, my heaven.
Embrace in your glance the seven grains.
I bear them, until I collapse.

Somehow I know, I know these things,
such as when I will have a shepherd’s
bad luck, forever the same horrible creed
of a hunter, and my heart starts to bleed.

Is the little bird torn apart 
by a paw? Lights switch on, at least 
one juxtaposition between 

I post the sign
late in spring
drawn on sewn skins

I hugged myself
and it changed my aerodynamics.
I began spinning out of control.