I don’t fully understand Dekine’s poems—even a simple one like “Paris, 2019”:
I lost control
following cigarette processionals, in and out,
of a freedom-spatting
mausoleum head. I love
There are entire worlds
in his words. My heart became
a jade toad, croaking fire. I leapt—
followed e smoke.
I can’t figure out “e.” In any rate, I read through the collection once.