I’ve discarded my first poems like old clothes, shoes, and ideologies. One of them came and told me: I’m tired, old and rotten can’t you see? Old poems, my first love spring-time cherries, cannot be sweeter than you . . . I see my face in you, wrinkled and contorted: perverse mirror that you are. Don’t kill me. Bringing to you sunshine and laughter let me flesh you with new face, new eyes, new teeth.