Dinner
Finer, finer napkins
try to sit balancing your asses on them
I wind round the columns like a beige snake
spitting out snow on the hour, a soprano singing
for the birth in the stove
Venus is on the couch showing her legs
(Untitled)
In June or maybe July
the carriage belonged to the woman in the country
Each noon would lean her head on a different side
right before left
She imagined herself beyond the good spirit:
in Paris, with a booty
