I. Nostalgic voices and their amber staggers reunited
With the crepuscular sidewalk
Larks of hope in the net of darkness
Estuaries of dreams terminating in the sea of weeping

Hearts and carillons of dissensions and thorns
Light becomes the miscarriage of night
In Turin’s shroud of tears
Atop the shadowy river of kisses

The world asleep in an alabaster tunic
With foamy countering tributaries of laughter
Gesticulating hands of solitary pigeons moist
With dew’s pity; rosy trunks where oblivion roosts

A Gypsy song careening
Through salubrious hearths barefoot
Severing into staffs and boisterous octaves
Alighting as clowns with parasols
With vellums of inscrutable numbers
Forlorn names of Eve and Esther

Butterfly of anonymity and unrealized beliefs
Abandons the enfolded, decimated chrysalis
And you the circle of my arms
Unabridged woman,
Handful of doves over my warring heart

II. The stars are but the moon’s lackeys
Pacing to ashen summits of vacant hearts,
Tulips as if ghettos liquidated,
By winter’s mercenaries, of stamens

Fury’s penitentiary of subdued flutes, of infatuation,
That swells as if a sprig encapsulated
Within an autumnal soul

The fish of hope in the grasp of the fishmonger
Train of detainees gagged by the vigilante sky

Comets enveloped, in a brawl over a sensual rose
Fragmented the earth’s tendons of pine

Tanks of hills razing brothels of anguish’s wineglasses
Mares salute Heaven’s carillons,
With clouds as if kerchiefs,
That pervade in a thousand dread-clad wells
And a bloodstained carnation of your mouth

You were the laurel clutch
Of my crestfallen psyche of crosses

III. Everything is cast of time
Even the song promulgating the tear
And the form nostalgia forged
In warehouses
That heaped scrolls of cerulean shells,
The moon’s globules of tears
Spring that rose from the accordion
And your azure eyes and the mesh of kisses
Mountain still infatuated with the thyme grove

Heady scent of jasmine’s incense in the golden
Chapel of arms’ crucifixes

Shadowy boat of a lover’s mouth in the waters of time
Bedrock of severed words in their padlocks of clandestinity
Garment of kisses to last an eternity of initiations
We are no longer in the moat of a triumphant kiss,
Under blood’s mausoleum of diverging roots

A loam in the vagueness of a verdant night where:
Uncertainty feeds of brioches, certainty kneaded
Shadows coalescing under the sermons of embers
Dreams dissipating into topazes death groped
Gelid pubis with a palisade of projectiles

Everything of that implacability remains
Mountains of happiness,
Trains of dreams,
Canals of embraces
But the sick, mangy canine of love,
Cot of yesterdays
Marionette of a pitiful cloud

In the cesspool of tresses
You are the vase of the fount,
Curves of my reverberating homeland
Scales of hope’s fish, glaze of a brumal breath
Blinding sweetness’s translucent window
Upon the twisted alley of dream,

Forged on sky’s stiff ring,
Morphing oblivion into
Insurmountable memories,
Dissevering hazes into esteems

Its axles snowing into your soul,
Inebriated wines in freedom’s flasks
Blue glints of love tingeing
The canvas of the sea’s vernal Leda,
Leather cygnet traversing a sea
Of zygotes and zithers

It was ours; it was no one’s

Insomnia bayoneting
The fish of dreams
With a thorny lance,
Bloodstained carnations,
The soul’s lining of
Inebriated stars

Anguish closes
As a nocturnal rose
Atop dew’s lips
That are more ours
Than yours

Your ivy-hairs
Entwined in the golden
Chapel of my brumal
Hands with
Roots of weeping

Bastion of cards,
Vermillion king
In his sepulcher of obols
Charon’s shadowy boat of lips
The livid river but a Via Dolorosa
You the Giaconda

Clockwork gait
Sediment of unrequited,
Candid crystals, rings
Willows of unbridled crucifixes,
Magdalene etched in ash,
Immortalized in tallows
Stars shrouded in urns of fog
Bedrock of sublime corpses

Azure collars intermingling
With ebony jackets
Diabolical shoe-shiners
And angelic bakers
But us, your waist
Is my insidious stream
Of embraces
The circle of your arms
Where I shall subsist
Circadianly without
Air, water, bread
Only: laughter, love, light

Amanuensis of winter
With a pen of clouds etching
Darkness’s pixels of ravens
Icarus atop the carillon
That summons the tides of pity

Heart that
Bounds, rebounds,
Divides, subdivides
Into pincers ambushing
The rose’s sensuality
A sweet, sweet moon
Of the mother liquid
Lampshade of lashes
From arrogant pupils
Ensconced in a boudoir
Where dread is
Dissevered among
Impalpable snuff-bottles
Of the earth’s womb

Here my melancholy wrestles with
Nostalgia’s ventilator and the cool
Metals of grates, pipes
That fury’s infantry liquidated
My resolute mouth of

Nymph of the fount whose
Name I helm upon
Destined for the archipelago
Of sorrow
Blue rood of kisses
Where the firebird roosts

An anvil of nocturnal gazes
Asleep in spleen’s cot
Amphorae of inebriated days
Descending into
The necropolis of
Sedated keels,
Seduced parasols
Alabaster anchors
In the nets of desires
Figurehead wedged in
Horizon’s canopy
Of flowering clouds

The world of scythes is cold
Your eyes that brim
With an autumnal harvest
Nude stars line your mouth
Cousin of the lighthouse
Phosphorus’s daughter

My heart is a polder
Of solitude
Where solidarity takes form
In tubers of laughter
And love was draped on
Bridges of mourning

1. Paradisiacal Entity
I. She was a timid marionette abrading a noose of pitiful dahlias; reins of morose comets to a windowless, hapless cloud the wind drew over.

II. He: a gondolier, mouth impounding frayed light, garnets and barcarolles, his voice: a foamy estuary traversing eons of love, that territory of half-opened marigolds and half closed curtains

III. Eve sauntered with matted streams of cascading laughter, basilisks; bound to the white tributary; inquired whether “water soothes the soul or satiates parched lips?” – rebuffed at the sacrosanct threshold where iridescence danced her clockwork rounds, with soupy, tempest-hewed eyes and a peony beret

IV. Nonchalant nave, Casanova a somnambulist in sleeplessness’s erratic warren: porticos of follies, blood that woke on the covert doorsill of mistletoe, crosses of unabridged, unbridled women, March’s gaze that rose from the interminable sands

V. Days sank in the waters of time, errant mountains of sorrows and their blue lurching, sad vagabonds traversed the archipelago of Fortune, O infinitesimal magnolia submerged by foam and cherubs

VI. In a brusque tenderness, dreams were cast of spume in twilight’s carillons, the life of the road reunited with fire and petrol, froth with snow; a resounding hymn of wells permeated the horizon’s veil, and a child scrutinized her ashen face, brows of seabirds, pitiful language of scars enacted by clandestine waves and the moon’s brumal chicanery

VII. Vis-à-vis Gabriel’s auriferous pinions, Eve was Heaven’s miscarriage, the ingénue descending as a teacup seduced by a lax floor, an entity of Ward’s Island, the earth but a canapé of stars

VIII. From the barge of pine onto the isle of fortuity the earth’s roots germinated suddenly from scald, magma into his saltpeter-hewn eyes, ardent allies of the dike’s diurnal anthem, brothers of the mine’s quartz thumbs, stifling iron-soul and furtive lovers of the sunflower’s shadowy net cast upon the brambles of childhood

IX. God’s reflection in nature, beauty; His shadow in somber cities, indulgence

X. How did the honey-drop in its golden-hued suit of light, bitter crown of névé conquer their hearts?

XI. The boatman’s dream careening through haze, alighted on her smokestacks, a gallant in a garland of coalescing silver

XII. Sulphurous sentences absconded the suffocating stable as boisterous, azure colts cantering within the sky’s pasture; the stars were but melancholy, soulless basalt slates, the comet of a still-dewy tulip, bluebells’ carillons of a meteor throb

XIII. Her mouth held the enigmas of the sky. She was the queen of his bones whom the streets would don their vermillion sundresses, for those treading crystal-roots, streetlamps that gifted their crowns of inebriating, chanting stars onto that cold-silver hair, fecund warehouses that heaped necklaces of herbariums, moon-tears, parchments of nude kisses, onto her topaz bosom; keeper of his voice undulating as a frond, intoxicated on the moon’s void, ineffable neon-lights

XIV. Vault of a curt love where only a fragmented sconce remained; nascent stars tangled in sullen rooftops; she propagated fire through the quiescent hamlet, embers became flame’s disciples and an ashen mermaid yearning on spring enfolded as a beach chair

2. To Burgeon
I. School of fish, an abecedary of twilights, yardstick of the horizon, abacuses of cerulean shells; brine assailed the roundabout of her sole

II. Neon-canals of dim-lit smiles, insurmountable locks of comet-wheeled hearts,
banks of a silhouette solidified on fury’s coast, spray of eyes that broke loose on dandelion stamens

III. Willows of caresses eschewing autumn’s morgue of unrequited love, bedrock glinting as fading topaz; four-eyed, alabaster gondola

IV. Dream that takes form in the lyre and a clown, uprooted, with a parasol; incessant shadow of a guitar promulgating the tear

V. They were tallows: wicks entwined, encapsulated by the auriferous horizon, irradiated by heaven’s conflagration of unyielding orange-laughter

VI. Anything forged must be de-forged, loved, de-loved, purified, de-purified; stubborn love that stammers and stammers and stammers; forges a crystal and kneads a brioche for Cherubs

VII. The ash becomes diamond becomes star becomes ash; those blue eyes dropped their gazes, undressed, coalesced but a dewdrop on the glass-paneled sky

VIII. Love is a jar laced with oblivion, rimmed with vitality, shimmer of rage; only she is born and dead of anonymity

IX. Ariane was a clutch of sprigs over his thorny heart

3. Intoxication
I. The moon and her forlorn breast of Camembert under a cardigan of snow, the despondent stars bled globules of dandelion-wine

II. Ophelia was an amber-carafe at the hands of an inebriate; perhaps, only the drunkard comprehends the blithe in drunkenness, the road the only ally of solitude

III. How does a single dewdrop encapsulate two distinct souls?

IV. Ava was an amanuensis with a ballpoint of roses adorning sepulchers for there to be no more dissensions between bones or despondencies for the cupola, for nostalgia to dance in instantaneous reveries of petals

V. For lovers to be entwined by ash’s roots and aroused by the impalpable aroma of youth, vernal strolls and verdant stupors

VI. She became an Isadora drunken on the long bout of the road; a kerchief of lachrymose butterflies and sullen clouds

VII. A sprig flitting the sky of tears toward the mother-of-pearl sun with her thorax of water and pendant of bluebells

VIII. Ariadne and the mill of silk forging Longinus’ spear, manna; the chaff, shucks are the foam of dreams grown hazy by dawn.

IX. Absalom was an acolyte of neon of a procession of stars disentangling themselves from their emery-jackets toward a vigil of air-flowers

X. Pacing to a still comet that strayed onto the door-less Olympus Mons, hearth of masturbating she-wolfs, palisade of livid bayonets, depression laden with jaded garlands of laurels, kisses

XI. Death to all, even mourners, Dionysus in his antechamber of pallid coins, the violet between lips becoming a stream of dandelion-wine, the Naiad with her glass slippers, cork fedora, corkscrew for a heart

XII. The net of darkness engulfed the pitiful world; he wanted to do to her what night does with taciturn stars!

XIII. He did to himself what winter does to bellicose trees, time to vacant halfway houses of memories!

XIV. Wine-stained lianas, blood-hewn carnations, air-flowers

4. Juxtaposition
I. He with palms that gesticulated as sparrows atop a cot of quarterlies, face of ethereal ash never to coexist in the spheres of coins: gaping mouths of Monarchs, forlorn loon-wings, moose antlers as if towers of Babel!

II. Dealt spades, clubs; reeling on the twisted alleys of gratification, infiltrating chapels of love: crosses of unbridled women with vermillion tunics, mausoleums of golden sip in taciturn flasks

III. She was the chaff becoming a comet becoming a tear becoming a pear

IV. Passionless women of volcanoes and geysers, snow and lilies, ash and brine; horizon’s easel of woebegone kisses moored to the teary-eyed Heavens; mesh of desires anchored to virtuous, reminiscing effigies dawn forged of dew-bolts

V. Lolita adhered to the road, dream to time, love to darkness, smoke to eyes, heart to a home of a star of death of a life of the road succumbing to hope’s procession of chimes; no more dissensions of bells and Sundays or the bandit in his jacket of underfoot leaves and autumn’s vault of oblivion’s wine

VI. Time undresses love but fantasy saturates her; Divine inert egregious mountains gagged the shadowy boat of lips

5. Introspection
I. Fishmonger of kisses, spurns, Lamplighter of dreams, concreteness, Landscapist of eyes, shade

II. Litigator of the amber-bottle and sidewalk’s brawl
Auspicious litigator of yesterday’s euthanasia to envelop morrow
Zealot of Bethlehem’s naves, the world in a blazer of the horizon and a bow tie of stars
Ardent zealot of the train of dreams leaving the inebriated coastline
Reaper of midnight waves
Usurped reaper of the earth’s buzzer to instantaneous green eyes, solitary violet of the pubis, bosom of gelid silver
Salesman of destinies embalmed in obscurities, twist-tie of hope’s path, pericarp of nostalgic voices; Capsules to abscond water’s wing imbuing its mundane clovers into the soul of clay; a clutch of ivory anguishes

III. The sun’s clod of blood on the sea’s mantle of foam in the net of darkness upon the fish of hope traversing the sky of ardent eyes

IV. I am a shadow in the pure heart of a spring.
I am a shadow in the heart of spring.
I am a shadow of spring.
I am a shadow.
I shadow (her on the tightrope of headstones).
I, (her).
(Her)…

I. All love is mired in sadness

Dreams die of insomnia

I am encapsulated in the quagmire of your flowery lips

Stars: colts frenziedly careening across the sky’s weft

The horizon is peopled with brandished rulers, maudlin voices,

Queens in coronets of bones, cuticles of guitars where spring rose in spume

Your hairs raining all winey-night into my salt-hewn eyes

Flowers germinating in the hidden light of being

Being infatuated under horizon’s veil

II. Love forged on burgeoning stars,

That descends into alcoholic cesspools,

Laden with our incarnate, unabridged crosses of arms

And frond of stillness’s pear-bough

Pallor of winter, coalescing gelid lips

Collapsing into the sea of corpses

We are quills of Orion’s bow destined for the road of hope

That originates in the eyes of mourning

III. Flowerless eons of mirrors in egotists’ clenches

You are a handful of dahlias on my barren heart

A train of dreams, the word: somber in its fedora of liberty

A paper crane navigating vellum of inkwells,

Fallen lashes from stifling egos, clods of the moon’s blood

The whole of love absconding the sea and it’s blue lurching

And filling your azure-topazes of eyes with founts

Love in you, me, the vendor of anguish, jar of vitality,

In dreamers traversing the archipelago of Fortuity

And comatose veins of Bronze

Love that courses and courses and courses toward the wake of lighting clashes;

Kneads a cloud of pity and ebbs in brine-coated crystals

IV. Chloris, in you there are no dissensions between hearts and comets

And insurmountable canals of smiles and thawing shadows of furies

And firebirds and fishes of hope and air-flowers and cupolas of halos

The invisible stairway no longer despondent,

Kisses are but disciples of tenderness

I delight in your amorphous, silent love unbuttoning my snow cardigan

With its pincers of haste that undulated as carillons

That illuminates the homes of stars of dreams of isles of pines of tranquility

Of a cocotte of a road of unyielding fervor of an effigy

You are still as a butterfly in a waist of fog, amber in shade

Skies throbbing in wine-stained reveries, the nude stars resurrect my visions of you

On the phosphoric vagrant rail of March’s infernos

The moon is a vessel laden with vanquished memories, resurrected visions

V. Lamps adorning garlands of lachrymose clouds upon spring’s bosom

Earth is the soul’s lantern, a nocturnal honeysuckle of dawn

The rose between your lips becomes the stream of blood of an arduous, woebegone

Encounter in the necropolis of unrequited love

Where a desire alighted as a pigeon, dead, with a name: Esperanza

The bloodstained, echoing flower, of my distant land with alabaster-mare hips

Basking in the taciturn vase of caresses, dew of reciprocity,

Petals but hems of the ensuing melancholy

And a parchment of naked kisses lurks in the kiln of obscurity

I. My solitude that treads
With pincers of haste
Sextant of bracing hips
Compass but a bloodied rose
Awaking on the invisible stairway
A rustic, cored, comet-beret
Arms of the road,
Rood enfolded in a timepiece
That spews a cuckoo every midnight,
Ariadne’s silk spinnerets each blue-hour
Galoshes of indigent honeysuckles,
Mantle laced with
Autumnal penuries,
Anonymous names

Your eyes as if calderas
Of the bleeding moon
Laden with the fowl of dream:

Stork of alabaster-vellum
Traversing rivers of
Wombs, candid, remote, rings

Firebird in destiny’s bough

Tinsel bowerbirds roosting
In your azure irises,
Auditor with a pen of tears
Within chaos’s wilderness,
Pegs upon the electrified wires
Transfused with heady aromas of hopes

Ashen ravens
Amidst vertical-streams
With wakes, contusions
Encaged in oblivion’s antechamber
Of intoxicated liquors

II. In the night’s depth,
The world is cold,
Even my saltpeter eyes are,
My seized soul
Trees dewy with solitude
Inebriated carillons
Of the pious chapel

But, your hungry heart,
Evanescent lashes
That I crave, as if
A butterfly of melancholy:
Salvation
Or the word woebegone:
Garlands of caresses

Diadem, laughing stars
For your mound of tresses,
Of abloom clouds
Moist, moist skies
Timetables of circadian lilies
Where love dances her frayed rounds
Clockwork of suffering as if
Creepers encapsulating
A vacated soul
Of anguish’s curt tides:
Aching porticos,
Ashy panes

Spring gifted you,
Spring gifted you,
Nostalgia’s pendant
Of March’s maniacal
Fuses of true-repose

III. My solitude wrestles
With the cherry tree’s
Winey-rouge
The nude rain’s bluesy song
Silken mills of chaff
Morphing into stars
Among the archipelago
Of melancholies:

Here, my sorrow capsizes
The tenebrous vessel of your lips
Brimmed with casks of
Backcountry, naïve
Kisses

Carcass of love
Pericarp of obscurities
Darkness’s tubers tingeing
Your solitary voice of sprays
Night’s mesh whitening the
Ichor-stained
Rose of the keel

IV. My heart is but
A snow-globe in
Nostalgia’s
Gelid
Automat
Erect upon the
Inert earth
Crowned by
Ivory skies
Of the mother-liquid
Galaxies with
Ice-wines upon their
Glacial bosoms

You are only a flower
Everything but a flower,
A light, a shadow
A lamp of shades
An inebriate of water
Name that aligns, misaligns

Tell me you’re beautiful, spry, coronet of a carousel, entwined with a solemn pine and the livid brook of hushed lips chanting…

“When my love, Why my love, How my love, Beds are the foam of dreams, Platefuls of Babel’s bliss atop the lover’s basalt-torso, Ariane exonerated in the heart’s seam and his warlike, dove-less mouth, When my love, Why my love, How my loneliness”

I observe with your dimness, hark to your tranquility, subside with your inertness; dream with your insomnia.

Every spring
Of each hour
Of diurnal dreams
Dissevering into
The stars’ clods of blood
Coalescing as azure crystals
Into sullen bluebells, wicks;
Throughout the tallowed sky
Slaughterers in coronets of bones

I paced through
Voice and silence
Dream and haze
Initiations and divergences
Past manors who heaped
Cigarette-ash
Of taciturn comets
Winey embraces of
Inebriated inkwells

Where from the sea of weeping
Tides of anguish engulfing
The silver penitentiary of my heart
Encasing twilight’s butterflies

Blue, macabre glints
Of rigidity’s iron
Rifting from lightning’s
Lie-cleaved board
Into multitudes
Of uncertainties

You were a firebird
Of autumn’s fronds
In my verdant soul
A dove in a mercenary’s
Viridescent eyes
The word: forsaken,
In garlands of caresses

A glass panther traversing infernos
Of groins, heated hearts, autumnal hearths
Assailing the train of shadows
That billows as a morphine syringe
In the soporific chapel of euphoria
Honed on hallucinations, poppy-hewn lips

Comatose veins of phosphorus,
Bleeding moons,
Erect courgettes
Are but the spume
Of a kaleidoscopic dream

Love’s form in the flute,
Of risen baguettes vended
To arrogant duchesses of tulle
In spines of voyageurs
On the archipelago of Serendipity
Chrysalis of Pomona’s oak crucifix
Of an unabridged lap
Errant pupae of oblivion

Each lover with
Eyes of mourning
And a cot of scalded tongues,
Curbed slurs
Montages of roses
And their clockwork lurching,
And chèvre of
The sleet-clad mountain

A nectarine of the sky
With its earthy pit of solitude
The alley’s bosom of rolls
Unleavened with insomnia,
Transcendences of
Despondent kilns
Diadems of ash

Heart of thorny goblets
Singeing the mouth’s
Underpass of cold leaves
Thickets unifying within
Orations of dew, bitterness
Divulged by the vagrant fuse
That muzzles vacant souls
Amidst a scuffling of spiders
And their silk-works

They pitied love with bruises
White, solemn tributary
With bedrock of rosy infants

Night, but a husk-cygnet

That swam

Into alabaster despondencies

That sank into the taciturn

Suffering of ivy,

Leafless prodigal wombs

Of linens, river of hides,

Bloodied carnations

Where death lurks as a lark

Of a deck hewn with anarchistic cards

With the hope of a submerged swimmer

In the river Styx

Impalpable caskets aroused

By undressing logs of earth’s tendons,

Disentangling from autumnal aromas

 

Are we but two circles?

One of seabirds, stamens

One of scythes, chaff

Dissolving into silver irises

Conjoined by an overpass

Of musky vagrancies,

Pomona’s nectarine pubis

Via Dolorosa of unseen,

Stairway

 

Or crucifixes of

Solitude’s crossroads

Of starless sand-specks

Upon ashen walls

Where nature-morts

With cored nooses of Nativity lights’

Hung in inert panes?

 

The soul’s bungalow vacant,

Aching columns,

Only, a glassy hummingbird,

Nestled with mummified flowers

Of solitude

 

In what pity does rain torment the tormented?

Who mourns the mourners?

Who dreams the dreams of the last?

What extinguishes stars?

 

Territory of sorrow:

Of pixelated clouds, abloom geysers

Of love-letters, green sprig-pen

And vellum of tears, enveloped

In twine, stamps of autumn-cleaved

Hills, Marks of anguish’s mercuric

Tides, Embalmed in Hermes’s

Pannier of virgin-kisses

 

I shall be an anchor in

Your mesh of obscurity

An anvil, corroded arms

Of obstructed obols

Moored to the dollar-bill of the

Narcissistic sky; everyone is a numismatic

Schooled on mint-tea

Omniscient eye of the monolith

 

But my soul, that lacks

The cold silver of your green

Torso in the heady founts of colognes

 

In what melancholy do sweet words,

Rain on tormented objects,

Satiate the parched lips,

Of the brumal earth?

 

Die and resurrect yourself

In pistils of stars among thorny galaxies

Dove in unfastened skies of Orion’s quivers

Impalpable amber filtered

With the sun’s cigarette of moon-cores

 

If I die, perhaps again

From oblivion’s clench

And rouge-smattered lies

I would be the pen of lime

Erasing the easels

Of stifling hammam-filled cities,

The vagrant ash gags

And torments, with

Colonnades of indigent smoke,

Of an embittered caress,

Upon the fish of hope,

In the river of coalescing blood

 

The Haven with its diadem of incense

Galoshes of tresses

Navel of my loneliness

Hope’s road for a throat

The sky with the dead at its pupils

The living at its toenails

The lovers on the bosom of fury

You, her ego’s lash flitting

Into the minestrone

Of streetlamps

I. Why does the butterfly of dreams sleep on rain’s teacup?
Is love knowing or unknowing?
Why does dew torment nascent tombstones?
How can the sea sing, with so much foam in his mouth?
Who lights up stars?

II. Do all the coins of meteors fall through the sky’s holey jacket?
Why when the poor rain sings it reminds me of your bluesy voice?
Is the comet’s exoskeleton of ash or honey?
Where does the solemn wake of stars terminate?
How many dreams are there in a night?

III. Are sorrows piled high like plates on the piney lands?
For whom does the road undress?
What bayoneted the fish of hope?
What if a dove entered a great clash of bloods?
Who drafts the manifesto of streetlamps?

IV. Is there anything freer than the tulip-barge approaching the isles of kisses?
Is the opaque night a cuckoo clock spewing silent stars?
What is the kindling of love’s fire?
Is the summit but iron’s mound of wineglasses?
Who paints autumn crimson?

V. Is the cedar indigent or is that her diadem of drunken stars?
Does the curtain obstruct the horizon and window’s affair?
Am I upon the mountain of melancholy or within the chasm of dream?
Does the flower close herself to avoid the sea’s prying spume-hands?
Are doors pistils of saloons?

VI. Are the notches of my eyes snowy or flowery?
Why do undressing secrets get heavier and heavier?
Am I an unlit candle in the conflagration of humans?
Are there unities in dissensions?
Are voices the sea’s entity, souls the sky’s, bones the land’s?

VII. What does the firefly dream of among the blue twilights?
Is my soul a window or a door?
Do people have roots?
Do lovers have hearts?
Do stars have prickles?

VIII. How can we tell solitude exists when she’s mute?
Is money an opiate, oil a liquor?
Is indulgence blind on Sundays?
What fills emptiness?
Does the fish of hope live in the net of caresses?

IX. Is all love in vain?
Were anguish’s silver waves born from the quarry of loneliness?
Why is life so capricious?
Is laughter a byproduct of weeping?
Are shutters the eyelids of houses?

X. Do roads live in voices or voices in roads?
What fuelled the infatuation between the streetcar and rain?
Does hope loath lighthouses?
When I die will a cherry tree germinate from my brow?
Do dim stars seduce Nativity-lights?

XI. Is the arms’ crucifix: corroded or oxidized?
Is everything moist with oblivion?
What if spring slept in, would it remain gelid?
Is wine the prophet of grapes?
Why do sad crows alight on drunken carillons?

XII. Did piety corrupt the cocotte?
Are serpents earth’s wires, suffusing despair in voltages of tears?
Did the hand of death strike Bethlehem?
Is my mouth full of blood or carnations, scald or foam?
Did the wind lash the shadowy river of mares?

XIII. Is fall’s pubis of gourds?
Are embers flame’s disciples?
Does chaff become stars?
Does night forge gold into comets?
When I am melancholic, is my compass allied with the falling sun?

XIV. Does love suddenly stop in the morning?
Is that when trains rise and get filled like tribunals?
Are the flame-lips of the cigar igniting the avenue of cedars?
How does day know of the existence of stars?
Do the carcasses of moons live in eternal rivers?

XV. Do these rivers sing to nude roses?
Did the rose’s roots entwine an eviction notice?
Does night consume the cake of tall stars with icing of snow?
Are leaves the elm’s tutu, gracefully swaying on the papery earth?
Did that elm become the understudy of the paper crane?

XVI. Who loves the unloved?
Why is my soul so much like a broken shackle?
Who hears the waters of time drowning the crystal days?
Does the vagrant smoke find shelter in the hearth?
Why does dawn gag dreams, insomnia slaughter them?