to dddeflect at a blow the blow.
Her two broad leaves, her valve
opening in succulent reception
from multiplicand to multiplier,
her condition excellent for pleasure,
all readies truth.17
I strive to ddeflect at a blow the blow.
To her flattery, I transasfixiate18 Bolivarian asperities
at thirty-two cables and their multiples,
hair for hair majestic thick lips,
the two tomes of the Work, constringe,
and I do not live absence then,
not even by touch.
I fail to teflect at a blow the blow.
We will never saddle the torose Trool
of egotism or of that mortal chafe
of the bedsheet,
since this here woman
—how she weighs being general!
And female is the soul of the absent-she.
And female is my own soul.
[CE]
X
Primary and final stone of groundless
chance, has soul and all
just died, October bedroom and pregnant.
From three months of absent and ten of sweet.
How fate,
the mitred monodactyl, laughs.
How unions of contraries
despair behind. How always the digit emerges
beneath all avatar lineage.
How whales go dutch with doves.19
How these in turn abandon their beak
cubed up in third wing.
How we saddlebow,20 facing monotonous haunches.
Toward the tenth are ten months towed,
toward another beyond.
At least two are still in diapers.
And the three months of absence.
And the nine of gestation.
There’s not even any violence.
The patient props himself up,
and seated smears on the soothing salfe.21
[JM]
XIII
I think about your sex.
My heart simplified, I think about your sex,
before the ripe daughterloin22 of day.
I touch the bud of joy, it is in season.
And an ancient sentiment dies
degenerated into brains.
I think about your sex, furrow more prolific
and harmonious than the belly of the Shadow,
though Death conceives and bears
from God himself.
Oh Conscience,
I am thinking, yes, about the free beast
who takes pleasure where he wants, where he can.
Oh, scandal of the honey of twilights.
Oh mute thunder.
Rednuhtetum!
[CE]
XVII
This 2 distills in a single batch,
and together we’ll finish it off.
No one’d heard me. Striate urent
civil abracadabra.
The morning doesn’t touch like the first,
like the last stone ovulatable23
by force of secrecy. The barefoot morning.
The clay halfway
between gray matters, more and less.
Faces do not know of the face, nor of the
walk to the encounters.
And without a toward the exergue may nod.
The tip of fervor wanders.
June, you’re ours. June, and on your shoulders
I stand up to guffaw, drying
my meter and my pockets
on your 21 seasonal fingernails.
Good! Good!
[CE]
XVIII
Oh the four walls of the cell.
Ah the four whitening walls
that irrefutably face the same number.
Breeding ground of nerves, evil breach,
through its four corners how it snaps
apart daily shackled extremities.
Loving keeper of innumerable keys,
if you were here, if you could see
unto what hour these walls are four.
Against them we’d be with you, just the two,
more two than ever. And you wouldn’t even cry,
speak, liberator!
Ah the four walls of the cell.
Meanwhile as for those that hurt me, most
