Closer, closer. I am feeling great.

It is raining; and that is a cruel restriction.

Move it, move that foot.

How long before those hands pretending to be

a thicket raise the curtain?

You see? The others, how comfortable, what effigies.

Closer, closer!

It is raining. And later today another ship will pass

loaded with crepe;

it will be like a nipple black and deformed

torn out of a sphinxine Illusion.

Closer, closer! You are at the edge

and the ship may haul you out to sea.

Ah, unmoving, symbolic curtains …

My applause is a festival of black roses:

you can have my seat!

And in the clamor of my renunciation,

a thread of infinity will bleed.

I must not be feeling so great;

move it, move that foot!