All this twinkling, bubbling, sticky sweet,
soul-flowing decadent sorrel,
love of pouring,
snails set in the mouth, stuck to the heart,
stupor of the marsh.
Stupor of the swamp, swollen from the damp,
from the damp and the heat of a soul longed for,
squeezed by the realization—
they didn’t pull me out of Ljubljana
like Caesar pulled you out of the province,
I move quickly,
compactly, the duke.
Without sadness and evaporation.
Your misfortune is
that the barbarians were outside,
Rome was empty.
My luck is
that the barbarians are inside the skin of America.
I’m a Hittite.
I don’t pay, because I’m high.