Down
the eccentric path the secret prince of thought
Prances
in his ordered vennels; dreams of dour light.
I
see you coming over the hill; troubling discrepancies.
Caves
between the mountains gardens harbours
Too
much to address outside of Faeryland; but real.
Lines
diagonal and points; thus there are only detached
Strokes
that no longer culminate in a picture of some human body:
Chinese
writing
like a bit of European hallucination;
And
I fear in spite of everything you are just a superannuated
Spy
taken over from the Ancien Regime, so
I don’t see that
All
this has much use. Therefore I sha'n't press the point.
Perhaps
I'm wrong; but l’imperatif du transit
before you start.
Harbours,
you said; when the evening lights are
lit
Wine
and meat rot behind vermillion gates.
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