A line is a fuse
that's lit.
The line smolders,
the rhyme explodes—
and by a stanza
a city
is blown to bits.

“Lovefor usis no paradise of arbors —to uslove tells us, humming,that the stalle…”

“On I’ll pass,dragging my huge love behind me.On whatfeverish night, deliria-rid…”

“Глухо.Вселенная спит,положив на лапус клещами звезд огромное ухо.”

“If you prefer, I'll be pure raging meat, or if you prefer, as the sky changes t…”