[Each line accompanies an image of Monika Fioreschy]
Formats in space, flowing aids
Something must come out of this movement
You shoot arrows into the sun
Left less completely
Perfuse with white blood as before
Another comes and does it
Mathematics of loving couples – so much methodical interest
With my view on to spacious gardens bury me and dig me up
With climaxes on which the light sucks
Certainly lasts until next time
Construction in the universal
Who dig over the sea when half asleep
Approached God through the mouth
Where the air breaks apart in strands
The owner is permitted to poach
Everything seems to be fleeing here
Belongs to the rain so skilfully straight
That makes thick milk from the mists in autumn
On a sunny day in November
This point is skinned
And where the sea yields, where legs anchor
Sacred shadings
General motif of silence
Grey is dominant in the balance
The noise of car horns wafts into the points of triangles
Idea and wood
And blown thin in two voices, what was going ahead jointly
Underlies that with appearances
He thus makes right royal use
Maître de naissance, my grave is a pair of pyjamas
Stone driver bunch of salty hairs sank and sank
Threats of black importance
Payload of the November clouds
For a day I could invent life, for longer it’s not enough
In the upper deflection
And the gentle depth of the flesh
A shining solitude
For the moon as white as ancient of our moods
I abandoned forced sadness and began the streaming
When the brain seeks new paths
Like laws of gravity he cleared out the streaming
For a hand-warm photo laid obliquely in me
Singability, especially regarding the flowing twilight
The root that carries you
Can hardly hold themselves
Take account of every relationship
Gently milk the gutter
Eumenides knit the sea wool of the waves
Intending discovery
Relaxed canvas of this eye
Where today fatigue consummates true wonders
I have the pain changed into microphones
In the fighting face of the fragmentary
Then flared radiantly up into ash
Under rebellious brightness
A desire for totally disused rust-eaten systems
On a river of boiling pitch
Where do the points of the compass come from
The young status floats
Sphere-green wind eight months old
Here the goats have black breasts
A handkerchief flew between us
Picasso’s eye trust, strongly aqueous
That is death from a lack of principle
Decisive movements in rags
