O you in that little bark What is the relation of the painti… The painting bears no relation to… The tiny boat bears nameless people across

“I said darkling and you said spar… The play-house appears before us as a real house in the dark filled with people cut out of magazines and postcards

They tell each other stories, lies composed as dreams and always in the colors of dreams: rust, chrome yellow, coral… chemical green. Of the dying

I was blind then, then a thread, then an effigy sledding toward the sun. Then a child falling unnoticed through space and into the sea, a painting of the sea. Dear Sister, your sisterho...

Bury me in a cocoa pod, it’s time. Bury me in a Mercedes Benz, a silver one, I’ve met my end. Bury me in a lobster shell, a carapace of red, now I’m dead.

Singing is prohibited in this café… Torture is permitted in this café. I’ll have a double, thank you, in time, Sister, may I call you Sister, you

So, Alyosha, maybe it is true that we live in perhaps. Perhaps the earth . . . perhaps th… chemical winds, auroras, tides, chalk hills and blistered pines

Those who have lived here since be… time are gone while the ones who m… replace them have not yet arrived. The streets are wet with a recent rain yet you continue to count

I do not know English. I do not know English, and theref… say about this latest war, floweri… scope in the evening sky. I do not know English, and theref…

Here, Sister, it can be said that good-by means hello, day night, far near, here where the rivers run uphill and the clouds lie still

We must count in Babylon. Surely in Babylon we must count, count the days and the dead, the chambers of the palace, its stones, its steps, its

Say that Ariadne spins the Nine… spins and sings them, the first for the body, the second for the p… the rest for the seconds, the minu… the hours of the day, the month’s…

Plan of the City of O. The great… curves down toward the cathedral.… water runs out into night where th… saint still maintains his loft. He… from the lower level and pulls up…

Beneath the writing on the wall is the writing it was designed to obscure. The two together form a third kind There is no writing

[Let a be taken as . . .] a liquid line beneath the skin and b where the blue tiles meet body and the body’s bridge a seeming road here, endless