A hooker / gives me the come on. Whether I really // don’t want anything. I don’t, even if / I think about it afterwards.
the ceaseless forgetting and reminiscing about pleasure / maybe two swans on the Seine / maybe one
I had never seen / such a narrow room / when we wanted to turn around / we had to embrace
Sometimes, I look at myself and feel vertigo. Who are all these contradictory people who, just by habit, I call “myself”?
Post-war literature is pre-war literature. / In front of doors is behind doors. / In my eyes I’m in your eyes, but how do you see it?
Sit down at the table / and clear your mind / Take a pen / and write your beloved’s first name / across a whole sheet of blank paper
Under the arbor by the stream, / Amid the scent of pine sap and stale beer, / I just wanted to sit a while / Forever
Afraid / to lift / and clear away / a cockerel’s / corpse. / You well know / by the time / you’ve called for help / the others’ve pecked / away the head.
Parting, practicing parting, gradually mastering the technique, / like taking off your last clothes and purposely remaining helpless and naked