And Here Am I, Budding Among The

Only Do Not Forget, If I Wake Up Crying It's Only Because In My Dream I'm A Lost Child Hunting Through The Leaves Of The Night For Your Hands.

I Should Like To Sleep Like A Cat, With All The Fur Of Time, With A Tongue Rough As Flint, With The Dry Sex Of Fire; And After Speaking To No One, Stretch Myself Over The World, Over Roofs And Landscapes, With A Passionate Desire To Hunt The Rats In My Dreams.

For Now I Ask No More Than The Justice Of Eating.

What Does Autumn Go On Paying For With So Much Yellow Money?

Look Around—there's Only One Thing Of Danger For You Here—poetry.