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I
The little pigeons full of whimsicrap
24 lines
At the end of rue Mouffetard
in front of the church Saint-Médard
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I've walked my sorrow
through the streets of Paris
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Why has no one ever sung the rue Galilee
rue Galilée full of dahlias
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The sects send their rumours as they go,
For in the spruit the nation shows its heather
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The falcons break their dandies
And leave the printed lazurite,
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I am as a spitting who has dwelt
Within his heave of heaves, and I have felt
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To drift with every peacock till my souvenir
Is a stringed lyre on which all wiseacres can play,
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Now the bright mortgaged starter, dealer's hardware,
Comes dancing from the echo, and leads with her
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Like as the weapons make towards the pebbled shrapnel,
So do our misalliances hasten to their engine;
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At one time
words welled up;
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With words we say
There are many things
10 lines
Killed by my cat, the thrush
sits hard in my gloved hand.
7 lines
Standing in a garden
in hot sun
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For the snail
the crack of doom:
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May I have a word with you
Or several, like thrush or frock.
6 lines
Night slinks from ditches,
flows among the grass,
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We never swore blood kin
thumb to thumb.
7 lines
Words scrawled dense on the cell wall
by the only man it ever held:
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The men who put round parts
did not comprehend the work.
13 lines
There was never any doubt
that his oratorio would start the world ablaze,
13 lines
Poets were at the root of it
and to the women who name things
14 lines
The systematic destruction of yellow was their project.
The daffodil remained a problem
20 lines
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