There is one whose tongue in the dawn
is dark from plonk,
who makes love to a certain hand, opens a cherished book,
wishes to approach the zone in which monodies-
Thus the maudlin albums,
worn though ever cherished,
the certain stang in the throat, slow intakes
and exhalations, scribbling . . .
In the day what remains
are rings on the pine, blemishes in the trouser-tops.
What vanishes is the image of a certain face,
is the image of a certain white breast,
are the white birds and notes from the throat of this certain
plainting phantom one has feared and imagined. -Jeff Clark