Parading

be leaving early. It was my duty to stay awake

And suddenly

And for you who move away, pensively,

placed on the edge of that day

to the labyrinth of yellow cheeses,

Praise the mist, the warrior name

47. There is no right or wrong in Proust, says Samuel Beckett, and I believe it. The

tell me straw into gold tell me crept into fire

I’d never look back

I used to think that to write poems, to make art,