Dies Lunae, 2015. 8. VI., Cape Lament. Some sorrel soup I mean the real kind With plump sea-poppies by an unmoving sea The egg you give / separately You didnt understand a person (who ever did); the Bacchic masks would oscillate, & witch end of the lilacs in the downturn I mean during the Great Troubles I mean / you wouldnt ever get it, the sorrel with pearl barley and just enough slime, or maybe a mackerel with a little vial of grain alcohol & the terribly pretty birds doing their thing (she smelled of camphor & mosquito repellent, in stark contrast to her appearance ( unusual in one so young ) Or the white lilacs in the north meadow, and that part of the sundial that means nothing 4 generations of dangerous women, I said, coming soon to a theater near you Only they came long ago, the Lydian Aphrodite leapfrogging her way from barbarity to So what if his life was always a little off / Despair took a back seat Miss Understanding sat in front / he didnt know what to do with his hands Its not just the heat its the proportions: sour mornings & blank nights, & that promontory whence the sun both rises & sets but it is never really warm & we were are all really cold deep down, in the breathing room Fish leapt but you didnt hear it, them, Carassius carassius, a lugubrious fish As slow as your tongue at midnight & it was a bright midnight Stuffed with regrets / I had a horrible dream, you said & I never want to see you again, & the dreamer as I used to cry into that questionable fish no self-respecting man eats and manhood is all about self-respect (les selfs along the autoroute, again A bird Id never seen before with a bottle green neck like the night the Stockholm ferry passed so close you could kiss wine into the mouths of the passengers despite the depth / But you have to go around the osiers & the seaside apple & the one you saw in dream was doing the dreaming. The Lydian Aphrodite loved tyrants. In that dream you turned away & came back / sometimes I forget the soup on the stove, or the split peas foam overwhelmingly or we were all really very cold despite our theories about Beauty or the timetable of the Stockholm ferry or your date of birth by then the sun had risen & a young man kept bashing his head against a wall. Not just any wall, mind you his wall. I wouldnt know wch way to stick it in. He was so unfathomably proud of his exquisite soup. A later adjectival paralysis. The religious cafeteria was suspiciously dusty. She took off her genes & did somersaults. Yuckety-yuck said the harlequin who is all about justice. Apud cunnum. I like my nights to end in terror. A trifling mind goes on & on about trivia a supple fellow knows how to end it. The sea-poppies afford no heroin. The dead books lie upon their shelves like odalisques. There is much to be said for life. But I wanted to go back to the soup I mean the delicious kind with love & cookies & emotions that eviscerate the thinking man & all his puns. In Latvian they misuse the word flings. Its pronounced feelings and hisses like a snake. 2015 Pteris Cedri. cedrins@gmail.com