Into your virtual city I’ll have passed
Unregistered by scans, screens, hidden eyes,
Lapping myself in time, an absorbed face

Emily Dickinson’s reverence for life led her to revere the world in which life unfolded.

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons --

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacrecl river, ran

Something must be done right away
that much we know

It was October12, 1982
my birthday

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

I sit in a mood of reverie.
I've brought to Art desires and sensations：

A few days after completing his reading of Wrong Paths Celan turned to a 1947 edition of the thinker’s Letter on Humanism and, according to dates he entered in the text, read it on August 21 and 23, 1953.

Driven into the
terrain
with the unmistakable track:

​“Unreality is the only weapon with which reality can be smashed, so that it may subsequently be reconstructed.”

Spill into the lake
but a drop of wine
and the sun vanishes.

There used to be a shooting range in the district center of Barysh.

There is a moment before a shape
hardens, a color sets.

John Donne has sunk in sleep...All things beside
are sleeping too: walls, bed, and floor-all sleep.

Completely destroyed

The power lines stretched
across the kingdom of frost
north of all music.

The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.

I’m nothing.
I’ll always be nothing.
I can’t even wish to be something.

The Waste Land is an American self-elegy masking as a mythological romance, a romantic crisis poem pretending to be an exercise in Christian Irony.

Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,

Up to the moment of the yellow sunset,

Un sauce de cristal, un chopo de agua,

Del aire al aire, como una red vacía,