What a night! My past is very close.
Dark rag-and-satin April in the city
Moves its water lily breezes, one by one. My fading letters!
My café-au-lait sentences that groaned for love and money.
There are nights when...
Lying an inch or two above the ground inside my head,
Heavy, but ripping with levitations, philosophy's
Bokhara carpet flies my past in and out of Time.
My past, no older than an April nigh!
A few streets away - boulevard scab of a hotel
Sh lived in; her armchir voyages inside a bottle;
Her pride, its great sciatic nerve at a word to -
......England is darker than a thrush, tonight,
Brown, trustworthy hours lie ahead. Suddenly
My past hurls her dream toward me!
I steady myself:...but how tender, carnal, blasé it is.
Let me hide, well away from a past that dreams like that.
Away from streets that taste of blood & sugar
When th glowing month smashes itself against the hedges

In the dark. I need ink poured by an abbey;
For... April, old greengrocer, I throw ahead of me a universe
Above your dripping clouds in flames, below
The deep, opulent engorgement of your soul in rut; & so lasting
Time snatches its hours there, like a poppy, when it can.