Sonnet, n° 143 (To Sarah Valle, Darling)
Birth is too Long:
still not accustomed
to move clouds with looks-Dream,
to draw cirandas in B flat
in the country of all children,
where there’s neither silver nor gold,
Nor vultures circling livers,
And the afternoon is always Morning.
But ,instead, the world is Manhattan
on horses slaughtering pianos,
Boredom wears hugo boss joyful
on the ox-Dead of times______
birth is too Long: intemperance
without breeze from Velocipedes.
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