Acacia, burnt myrrh, velvet, pricky stings.

—I’m not so young but not so very old,

said screwed-up lovely 23.

A final sense of being right out in the cold,

unkissed.

(—My psychiatrist can lick your psychiatrist.) Women get under things.

All these old criminals sooner or later

have had it. I’ve been reading old journals.

Gottwald & Co., out of business now.

Thick chests quit. Double agent, Joe.

She holds her breath like a seal

and is whiter & smoother.

Rilke was a jerk.

I admit his griefs & music

& titled spelled all-disappointed ladies.

A threshold worse than the circles

where the vile settle & lurk,

Rilke’s. As I said,—