I support the animals’ urge to survive.
So much for opinions. Slithering, writhing,
nosing my way through dirt, I can identify
with that. I joke to keep the system going.

Your malleable brightness is alluring:
if you’re shiny he’s blinded by the pants of you.

The sun is very hot. Why is it no one complains of the heat in France?

My thesis concerns the quantification of desire: what constitutes a unit of passion, what represents a significant change in body heat? Think of all the love given out without counting: to the mistress of a man who sleeps in a bed separate from his wife, whose business interests weigh heavily upon him.

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.

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