I We fell on the chair through a mistaken movement of the pen clinging to grace, our tobacco-stained grace. We fell on the balcony where they threw salt. Ultraearthly, a substance joined to the egg scrutinizes the last days of oxygen. II On the right our signature turning against us. On the left a sirvente with a dry-point: "your daughter, alive, will assume the soul of mine, who is dying." The dancers call us in the body below, they have a silence and a turning pencil of grass in the tall pencil. III Interior shelves, full of objects, collapse in the bank. I see that scene again: the dumbstruck people, the fast ones, the corners and the scorching wire, strange rondo of a word at the climax of light and throat "every pine tree...every pine...stop, you are amid yourself..." IV Thus we made ours the remorse of every thief; suspected, we lived on incense behind the crystal in the gynaeceum we stare at the absolute middle of a thing, a nutriment repeated for decades, enclosed in the marrow gathering on the ground fortune-telling leaflets, little boxes for cats which even when open set a limit for us. V The elevator cables sway, every thing is divided into memory and mandrake. First the dance with the snow. Then the processions of repose like a masterpiece whence to venture out barefoot. "In the water whoever is silent isn't forgiven." In the hour of a notebook, I answered, if they were called there, it was for some serious hell, a literary game suicides sometimes play. How many canteens given away as presents before drowning, how much earth spread on the pillow! VI I squeezed the idea hard: and then marriage, I rushed up to the fifth floor: and then I heard. You were saying: goodbye passions of hallucinated life, I want to light a lamp, to wake up here, to feel soft steps over my hands. The day is that woman who nurses against the wall, that zen leaning. You were saying: I looked at the part in my hair, I turned back to the oil lamp, for the sages. We children, we pine needles. VII "The water doesn't come back here, you find it again in a throat." At every turn of the earth, the same face. No fissure is as deep as those wrinkles. "Yes, you can exchange my life for yours, if you want." Head-sail, I called you. On an old slipway you still sleep, stagger a little, draw nine and a half meters with a free body. Harsh begging is the sign of twins...the migrating daughter, the taciturn one from the hills: then the pollen entered the dead and a supper appeared in the dark, with friends. She was there again, in December, and it was the same one, we could recognize her. Used by permission of Story Line Press. |