simply leaving her house

the unused hour

along the Thames

yet another relapse

also her teeth

would fertilize her brain

cutting the pages


a peace forever elsewhere

always much to much

on thorns

the dark blue and brown natives

a lonely man on display

lizards ran over him

as if it were a tent

a fantasy of instant friendship

his incriminating inattention


little sip of Proust

on April 26

as if to probe his bonhomie

roosters of the postwar


not a word of truth in it