Pseudopsychosis.

Of one memory, one

for the end of the dark does not lie,

I will not lie in it; darkness perfused

I shut the window; here he bleeds,

here he lies, though nothing is there.

In furrows, mercy, it is laughable.

The Earth succinct in waves

in a lonely larva

the dead poet’s dreams.

Stand under my umbrella,

we embrace in impassioned poverty

of loneliness,

an interaction of alacrity

and of bloodshed in the oceans

in the paeans

of sorrel idles

in a cluster of spring rain,

a sea becomes;

felled in trees

where you are shorn

off a lonely leaf.

Innocently, it becomes

entombed in the empty hands

and precipice by the fantasy

of the sea; it bleeds,

with not an end in sight,

it bleeds in maddening suffering;

a planet stirs

in figures of shadows

in the dark recess of my memory,

a trance.

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