In classic beauty, cold, immaculate,
A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands,
Upon her brow deep-chiselled love and hate,
That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.

THOU fill'st from the winged chalice of the soul
Thy lamp, O Memory, fire-winged to its goal.

Mix a pancake,
Stir a pancake,
Pop it in the pan;
Fry the pancake,
Toss the pancake, -
Catch it if you can.

I don’t know how many things there are in this world that have no name. The soft inner side of the elbow, webbed skin between the fingers, a day that wanders out beyond the tidal limits and no longer knows how to summon the moon it has lost, my firstborn who gazes about himself when the TV dies and there is a strange absence in his world. I was looking for a great encyclopaedia, the secret dictionary of all the missing words. I wanted to consult its index and find out what I could have become.

A mountain spring randomly flows over the steps:
a small house among thousands of peach flowers.
Before getting up, I leaf through a Daoist book
and watch her combing her hair under the crystal curtain.

Da Skotlands Skjalde i Bjergene sang,
Skotlands Tidsel som Rose udsprang.

“Who hath not felt that breath in the air,
A perfume and freshness strange and rare,
A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere,
When young hearts yearn together?
All sweets below, and all sunny above,
Oh! there's nothing in life like making love,
Save making hay in fine weather!”

Though hourly comforts from the gods we see,
No life is yet life-proof from misery.

Ribs ripple skin
Up to the nipples—
Noah, equipped, knew
Every one has two—
This ark I am in
Embarks my twin

Lightning hits the mirror and the people it holds.
Their silhouettes fall to the floor,
wisps of silver foil.

Alone on the wet marble,
you tap the empty glass and listen
for an echo.