Hot eyes at a lovesick dawn.
A lizard crushed its humid side
against the shell of a glass;
its tiny feet stained
the stained lemon cloth.
The diary was quite worth reading.
A tale (German, French), a European trek.
Byron was slipping, in her dream,
beneath the bay nestling
an island exhausted with seabirds.
There had been a catholic betrayal
to speak of, a life of crime and piety
and an anarchist’s heart like a jewel.