This is Sanziana with the ferocious mouth
terrifically lucky who knows a lot of things
about art, about love, about the vulval cleft
about the difference between the dream
and wakefulness she knows nothing
she knows about poetry and the
poets
of Romania who all without exception
are the poets of the potato and write verse
as flat deaf as the flat head of a serpent
she goes to the Faculty in this city
to nightclubs and sometimes to the brothel.
She lets me in only as a voyeur
from some tree.
She’s sweetness of a Dacian girl who read
“À quoi rêvent les enfants” by a certain
Dr. Freud, a crazy man who rummages
through the dreams.
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