Change the Forms of Dreams
moved here for no reason. don't seem
to be anywhere
worth bringing is the sense
that you must accept me, exactly.
Not as your woman.
I had left the
American poetry masons in their burntdown hall
But I moved for no reason
at least now that's the case, today
Aug of late, early on the 9th ninety-five.
three years later
All over the world it's been hot.
No persona my face
a light oval
On wall (wall of writing, in cave, in my imagination)
"In haec tempora
you will lie"
make loss? (in times of loss I don't lie)
through door, to left
I left I left the U.S. (I created more loss)
beautiful English, the house falls.
The first sentence (of my poem) must be "I left it."
What is the second
The form of the wave/weave comes to me in pictures
of stars swarming to be good
in their cage.
Man on métro speaks to himself
and so he can say anything he wants.
I wish I were him
always so constricted
by you, all you, the stars.
This page is not woven yet
but any wave of light is already woven
so as I tell you the past of the glassy future
I find I need a plot to show us truth,
the graph's coordinates quotidian life and
my life forgotten from sleep or
the unconscious which must rise up
wounded from the escape, dripping blood.
Loves in caves are love.
I mean, the universe
it had to
it is a universe of exactness.
The god we are in is exact.
There's nothing more serious or lighter than this
above rue des Messageries
Change the heroic mode.
Oh polluted lovely and the only thing American really
worth bringing to you is the sense
that you must accept me, exactly