Oh, bric-a-brac, how much I love you and your flaws
little cat to kill you, with her bare paws
: is what you would like ;
In the cobweb irritated she to smile
irradiating noisy flames
of gold and opiates made. Since soul is a heavy pile
to anyone who breathe in hair, lips crowning
and suffering of damp —
juices passionately encircling
in front of little cat’s mild eyes.
               You, pupils pristine
from the dusty cherry orchards, in swelling
  capable, now other tasks for you
ask. Licking elbows
attaching to moon the stomach
made of juicy gold
she cried, to the madness pumped,
the winter dark and proud.
              By the step she circles makes
like eaglet, the wounds treasury
in the frozen skull
carefully is wandering — the lightning
saline . . .