“Oh, la…le pauvre!
I shall run before him,
With a curious puffing.
He will bend his ear then.
I shall whisper
Heavenly labials in a world of gutturals
It will undo him.”
“The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.”
“Pour the unhappiness out
From your too bitter heart,
Which grieving will not sweeten.
Poison grows in this dark.
It is in the water of tears
Its black blooms rise.
The magnificent cause of being,
The imagination, the one reality
In this imagined world
With him for whom no phantasy moves,
And you are pierced by a death.”