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

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.

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

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.

These were your sighs,
your toss,
the listing yoke

I dream
of magazine covers
and clothes from my seventeenth summer,

In a field of broken antlers, 
I’m holy
as the grass 

I don’t give
a pound of
mule mucous