Devotions

 

 

To Sister Louise Vanaen de Voringhem:-- Her blue coif turned toward the

North Sea.-- For the shipwrecked.

 

To Sister Leonie Aubois d'Ashby. Baou-- the buzzing, stinking summer

grass.-- For the fevers of mother and children.

 

To Lulu,-- demon-- who has kept a taste for the oratories of the time of

_Les Amies_ and her unfinished education. For men!-- To Madame ***.

 

To the adolescent I was. To that holy old man, hermitage or mission.

 

To the spirit of the poor. And to a very high clergy.

 

As well as to all cults in any place of memorial cults and amidst any

events to which one must succumb according to the aspirations of the

moment or one's own serious vice.

 

This evening to Circeto of the icy heights, fat as a fish, and painted

like the ten months of the red night-- (her heart amber and spunk),-- for

my only prayer silent as those nocturnal regions, and preceding fears

more violent than this chaos of the poles.

 

No matter how, no matter where, even in metaphysical journeys.-- But

_then_ no more.