HUUU! (jette mon livre ---> Je t'aime en livrée)

I seek you in the ivory pages,

your long black sucking gums,

your tiny silver hatchet teeth.

Let there be no politics between us,

no lack of them, and if irony

is wrought by our presence,

let only its absence be sensed.

At the feet of intolerable fetishes our coupling breathes

as under the gaze of twins. Let the walls fall away

to reveal the bars of our prism, for we are drowned

in sensual seas of blindness.

Let our home be a cyclopian vision,

a place where failed journeys begin;

in speech our rubble is rited.

There are narrow passages between the layers,

but the stage is infinitely extensible,

its mind only half the horizon.

In beauty lies the shrugs of others.

Millet.

Our wound traverses a gray curtain

never to return. Giants first discovered

that madman by the sea who traced only a single line

from the flaw back into the screen, a shroud of touring

concealing manuloquian subterfuse.

Just another day in your machinic gaze, the labyrinth's nose

so cold and kind in the dog, and always convertible as evidence.

The ticket that exploded?

Or just the sun through the gaps of shame;

Millet.

Now is spring come to the tassel and tuxedo.

Now is charm reborn in the circus and pajamas.

The bachelor stripped bare

by its tripod brides, a lamp-like engine

on a mahogany rail,

the omphalos as the site of a pumpkin, a debate

or discussion,

and no toying need refrain

from the rough hewn door

where the quill skips ahead

as an empty chair guards

all nakedness. Barely a rondure

half-obscured feels its way

through the laughing darkness

awakened by King Solomon and his pig bearing invitation:

Visit Chez Jean! Its busy gold is up all night!

For Kicks!

For Millet,

in the living room of shoulders

where the stevedores

of science remain

disarticulating Yorick.