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



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