Eating the Baby Love is a covert operation like the skillful manipulation of phallic symbols in television advertisements, a postulate for the subconscious, the red-painted nail on the female hand, suggestion of the tactile, the smooth reflective surfaces of the car’s body, its dark interior. And the body’s

one I don’t know how long I’ve been talking for, an unexpected fit between durations of desire a word from the ghetto, from the garden, a word rich only in the shame of its associations too poor to unpack words that wear just the skin they stand up

(see also POVERTY) I Man’s estate is war And man and woman’s estate And the cancelled place of race The history of the senses This theatre this Nuremberg, Abjection is to feel And the monuments to touch And the monoliths Are kissing on me Pressing on me a

(see also SIMPLICITY) I Who’s left to destroy what is important? Flesh that is the pinkest is turned up To the light and The hurt done tonight will be Done The glass slips through your fingers (Giving, I can give you Showing, I can show The material fact) A

eros I The angel came again Past the ivy-shelled house Only a day after The photograph was taken In this embrace Can't you see? We're dying In certain pictures of the ascension She looks at him Over the shoulder of a lover Invisible The only clue

I. we all looked and could see nothing what are we supposed to see what are we supposed to see the inexhaustible the inexhaustible horizon torn from our hands Valéry said I cannot repeat don’t be so dramatic the sun fell in time the sun fell we spoke of