I've Often Lost Myself, In Order To

Ditty Of First Desire In The Green Morning I Wanted To Be A Heart. A Heart. And In The Ripe Evening I Wanted To Be A Nightingale. A Nightingale. (soul, Turn Orange-colored. Soul, Turn The Color Of Love.) In The Vivid Morning I Wanted To Be Myself. A Heart. And At The Evening's End I Wanted To Be My Voice. A Nightingale. Soul, Turn Orange-colored. Soul, Turn The Color Of Love.

The Moon Carries The Masks Of Meningitis Into Bedrooms, Fills The Wombs Of Pregnant Women With Cold Water And, As Soon As I'm Not Careful, Throws Handfuls Of Grass On My Shoulders.

There's No Doubt That I Really Have A Feeling For The Theater. These Past Few Days It Has Occurred To Me To Do A Comedy Whose Chief Characters Are Photographic Enlargements. Those People We See In Doorways. Newlyweds, Sergeants, Dead Girls, An Anonymous Crowd Full Of Mustaches And Wrinkles. It Should Be Terrible. If I Focus It Well, It Will Possess Pathos Without Consolation. In The Midst Of Those People I Will Place An Authentic Fairy.

Death, Vicious Death, Leave A Green Branch For Love.

My Poetry Is A Game. My Life Is A Game. But I Am Not A Game.