I always climb towards horror with greasy boots,
    starving now from flame
        fluently secular
            fluently in tears
    eternal chorographer of my diction
        and unquestioned garment.
Badly spent illumination in mauve and other delays,
        of an ignoble horizon
barking the creed of the dog, or an unbecoming
        hallucinatory Universe,
pharaonic queen through mathematical piousness.
        I am what’s involuntary of existence
my physique is not a flower, it is rawness,
    I am disposed toward a thousand years even if I fall
    eternally on bloody seconds;
    the winds have pointed me out.

May 1989