A man-eating knife A man-eating knife with a sweet, murdering wing keeps up its flight and gleams all around my life. A twitching metal glint flashes quickly down, pricks into my side, and makes a sad nest in it. My temples, flowery balcony of a younger day, are black, and my heart, my heart is turning grey. Such is the evil ability of this enveloping beam that I go back to my youth like the moon goes to a city. I gather with my eyelashes salt from my soul, salt from my eye, and gather blossoming spiderwebs of all my sadnesses. Where can I be that I will not find loss? Your destiny is the beach, my calling is the sea. To rest from this hurricane work of love or hell is impossible, and the pain makes sorrow last and last. But at last I will win out, worldly bird and ray, heart, because in death there is no doubt.

So go on, knife, and slash and fly: and then one day time will yellow on my photograph. Lightning that never ends Will this lightning never end, that fills my heart with exasperated wild beasts and furious forges and anvils where even the freshest metal shrivels? Will it never quit, this stubborn stalactite, tending its stiff tufts of hair like swords and harsh bonfires inside my heart, which bellows and cries out? This lightning never ends, or drains away: from me alone it sprang, it trains on me alone its madness. This obstinate rock sprouts from me, and turns on me the insistence of its rainy, shattering bolts. Your heart is a frozen orange Your heart is a frozen orange. No light gets in; it is resinous, porous, golden: the skin promises good things to the eye. My heart is a feverish pomegranate of clustered crimson, its wax opened, which could offer you its tender pendants lovingly, persistently. But how crushing it is to go to your heart and find it frosted with sheer, terrifying snow! On the fringes of my grief a thirsty handkerchief hovers, hoping to drink down my tears. You threw me a bitter lemon You threw me a bitter lemon from a hand so warm and pure that I tasted the bitterness without spoiling its architecture.

With a yellow jolt, my sweet and lazy blood turned hot, possessed, and so I felt the bite of the tip of that long, firm teat. But glancing at you and seeing the smile that this lemon condition produced (so at odds with my greed and guile), my blood blacked out inside my shirt, and through that porous golden breast I felt a pointed, dazzling hurt.