THEY have built a public fountain with the stones they threw at my father. I have tasted the water of that fountain; I found it sweet.
Famous cousin, we see you studying that dictionary in deadly earnest.
We see you assisted by a single lit filament, in the small hours of the morning.
The woman you call your lover is deaf to what I call music.
And the thing she thinks is music is, to me, the nattering of insects.
A hornet lives all her life with a multiplex dagger in her vitals. Who swears
To avenge her younger self must fly through miles of empty air.
It’s no use counting seeds; they won’t all come up. Better say:
“Gardener, they’re happy to count themselves, if only you’ll stand out of their light.”
No need for devilish alphabets, or for any code whatsoever.
They are right not to play at games who are certain to get no pleasure.
Madrid! like you and every other preacher, I am eaten up with guilt.
I have eight sacks of lead shot hung about my heart.