“In the Greek audience, fourteen thousand people sat down at the same time, to see a play … And nobody can tell me that those people were all readers of the New York Review of Books!”

It was no more than the description of a burst of rain 
and handkerchiefs of lightning which burned the secret of trees— 
then why did they resist her?

In the night, when the newspaper’s
proofreader died
he died without reading the proof.

I cannot tell you when, where
in what city or time
I saw this crime.

Nothing is left but the pyramids.
How heavy the stones of the pyramids are!

How they flare up, like a tinder bonfire
On the plaza of night, our holy convictions!
Before the usurping edict of tenderness

A day will come, lamenting, I hear,
When bright no longer with thrones, fires, tears,
My eyes which once incandescent ruled

In the world of friends, where travel is slower,
What do you do there, in the world of rain?
Who shares the segments of your tangerine?