The bag exhales its emptiness.
It has run out of things to give,
only a few husks.

I prop my hand under my chin.

My darling puts her kit on the table
and strings the kernels through.
There were all shades of yellow #5.

America's #1 Finest!

She puts them round her neck,
glistening in tv-light,
that nacreous shell of a necklace.

The white noise plays on.

They start to burst, each one of them,
into a different kind of flower—
daffodils, dandelions, daisies—
it was quite a piece.

My hands are so close now, trembling,
and I am hungry.

The white noise plays on.

Quickly I ****** at them, ****** into her,
And my hand comes out empty,
only a few husks.

The petals scatter slowly around us.

The bright, yellow sun is crashing,
And so, too, does that crumpled bag
Into the trash, above which hung

My heavy heart, my sweet
And her finest around her neck.

I prop my hand under my chin again.

i can’t tell you
how many of the apples
you left in a basket
are still untouched
on my bedroom wall
and how many are already
thrown out because
they began to rot.

i can’t tell you
how many of the apples
you left in a hurry
weren’t there in the first place
i just grew them
because i wanted them
in the basket
that you brought.

A kite—that's something I would like.
When ground is damp and lambs are born,
The kite floats up to lofty height.
When sky is fleeced and trees are crisp,
The kite is pulled up forks of light.
When brittle leaves are shed and blown,
The kite is thrown into their flight.
When dewy grass is glazed in rime,
The kite on frosty field alights.
When frost creeps over, all is white.

Below my feet are holes in a row
And through them swerves the thread.
My shadow, silently sewn to my sole,
Lays stretched on the road ahead.

So intricate the weave of the path
As her soft bed of hair,
My mind already beneath her lath
Had found her seated there.

And every thing my eyes lit upon
Was laced with golden hue:
The terrace, folding fields, oh! the dawn,
The sunbeams shining you.

Dietary supplements
Self-inflicted implements
Gastronomical desires
Quenched as if fire
Turning heads from meat
To vegetables and wheat
Years pass by
You shrivel and die.