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And this one is called "The One
Whose Reproach I Cannot Evade."

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She sits in her glass garden
and awaits the guests.

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The sailor with
the blue tangerine.

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The fish clothed in languages.

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The dolphin with a
revolver in its teeth.

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Dusk enters from
stage left, its voice

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falls like dew on the arbor.

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Tiny bells sway in
the catalpa tree.

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What is it she hopes to
catch in her net of love?

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Petals?

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Conch shells?

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The night moth?

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She does not speak.

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Tonight, I tell
her, no one comes.

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You wait in vain.

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Yet, at eight precisely, the
moon opens its theatric doors.

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An arm rises from the fountain.

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The music box, face
down on her tabouret,

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swells and bursts its cover.

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A tinkling flood of rice
moves over the table.

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And she smiles at
me, false believer.

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Smiles and goes in.

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Leaving the garden
empty, and my thighs half

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eaten by the raging twilight.

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That poem, incidentally--

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I have been accused, or
praised, or something--

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It has a lot of
theatrical poetry.

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I guess it is.

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The more I actually
look at that poem,

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the more I think it
must be, unconsciously,

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or semi-consciously
inspired by Jean Couteau.

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Well, not Couteau's
poetry, but some

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of his imagery and his
films, like Orpheus

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and The Blood of a Poet.

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I think that's
where it came from.

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I'm not sure.

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