Number Two Feeling the need of a the single love
I've prepared myself a sketch, clumsily,
on a May willow tree.
Then so many unknown sketches,
on a hawk, on a cloud, on a March rain.
Between number one and number two, my only infinite.
I sometimes sleep beneath the stars on a stack of hay
My apotheosis of thoughts in which I've gathered my maturity
turbid, cold, weird it is if I am haunted by the number one,
if barren solitude I am.
Hopeless helplessness of intuiting Tomorrow's voice
you're disease, you're mistake
and non-existance, you, insipid number one sharp
over-flowing of your perfection.