In the morning I smoke an imaginary cigarette, return to youth, recall a certain girl.
By noon I’m taller or shorter according to the witches of memory,
We are at the mercy of magic, don’t laugh. Outside, high in the oak
A black squirrel raises an acorn in its paws.
Though I am sad, I honor innocence,
Soft cousin of appetite,
The one with weak eyes.
Planet of the Blind 