It is night. You are asleep. And beautiful tears
have blossomed in my eyes. Guillaume Apollinaire is dead.
The big green day today is singing to itself
a vast orange library of dreams, dreams
dressed in newspaper, wan as pale thighs
making vast apple strides towards "The Poems".
"The Poems" is not a dream. It is night. You
are asleep. Vast orange libraries of dream
stir inside "The Poems". On the dirt-covered ground
crystal tears drench the ground. Vast orange dreams
are unclenched. It is night. Songs have blossomed
in the pale crystal library of tears. You
are asleep. A lovely light is singing to itself,
in "The Poems", in my eyes, in the line, "Guillaume
    Apollinaire is dead."