the thousandth augury, the fearsome memory, Godís remorseful urge, the
moribund sacrament, the terrible gods miserably cornered at the tip
of the dream; childhood decrees a spectral silence, all of this, the
challenge and the awe from me a promise:
2. Never, the sentences, the hanging moons, the hands drowning
in the fog, the wax boiling in the eyes, lying, subjugating. Celaeno,
evening goodbyes, inequalities in the final skin that consecrate the
least of manís rights, of the illuminated dream that drags its name
and its disgrace; the walls erase all signs of names and the secret
senses awaken an ironic nostalgia of seas, suns that fall, heroes, unfinished
journeys, stories that turn and turn without a face, without a number,
3. Yesterday, a sail on the horizon, a candle on your table,
a cave in the sand, a bloodless conquest, packed with previous attempts.
The Word names the prohibited altars and the astonishing lines of Fire.
I know that the hard spiral of this immense crucible of ignominies spies
on me with its terrible, black, open and restless hair, its tiny tigerís
smile and the dagger at its belt, cruelly sharpened, eternal, inextinguishable
in my side, its blade, the weak gratings that occasion the misfortune
of a single caress:
4. Eternity, of whose secret songs someone has said they reveal
the time and place of a revenge. With certainty I know it corresponds
to its infallible condition of witness, to consider this wound a triumph,
an overwhelming defeat or simply a grateful reminder for the Dharma
of these hours under the sign of the Desert of Fire.
TERRACE FROM NO VOICE
Some hand will nervously seek the nervous company of another
hand in the penumbra, one chair will slowly approach another and a silence
like forbidden skin will come to swing behind the melody. I loose my
eyes toward the door, distant like all doors, disquieting like my own
exit, like no exit; I look outside and only guess at the rumor of your
barefoot steps disturbing me in the night.
The light conceals you, but your sickly lineage has measure and a corporeal
nature: make pain, now, make sangria of insides. Move your soul to the
least modest side and it will be nighttime and you will be outside,
where no one observes you, under the light, this light.
LEAVING THE LAVISH RECITAL
I feel embarrassed for poets:
So much lacerated intent
so much forced ego
they are always sad
they are always scarce.
REGARDING JOB 27:9
Just as the dry leaves
in the depths of the forest.
Will the overwhelming city
by any chance hide
its solitary poets?