The elm is scatteringits little loavesof sweet smellsfrom a white sky!

I cannot saythat I have gone to hellfor your lovebut often found myself there in your pursuit

In the imagination, we are from henceforth (so long as you read) locked in a fraternal embrace, the classic caress of author and reader.

If you can bring nothing to this place but your carcass, keep out.

If you can bring nothing to this placebut your carcass, keep out.

Sleep! There is hunting in heaven -- Sleep safe till tomorrow.

Sleep!There is hunting in heaven --Sleep safe till tomorrow.

Again I reply to the triple windsrunning chromatic fifths of derisionoutside my window:Play louder.

I wanted to write a poem that you would understand. For what good is it to me if you can't understand it?

I wanted to write a poemthat you would understand.For what good is it to meif you can't understand it?