This garden that within my figured
mind seems to want to open new
small horizons for my joy after last night's
storm, this garden is slightly white
maybe green if I wish to color it
and it waits for someone to step inside,
its pacificity is unappealing. A dead corner
a life that descends without caring
to cellars full of meaning now
that death with its effusions has declared
its own importance. And within
the effusion a small dream insists on being
remembered—I am peace it nearly screams
and you don't remember my solemn shores!
But the garden is quiet—paradise, by a trick of fate,
isn't anything that you seek outside of me,
I who am the renunciation; it announces me
first painfully then cautiously in its
creation the firmament I sought.
*
Whispering peace, I found you
trying to disappear. It's
as if, in your emptiness crowned with indecent
navels, a true story were born,
truly heedful of your words.
And in the engagement that I deem necessary
to take as your home
a flower trembles again, it is my
mind sick with so many false solutions.
Overturning stylistics, carrying off
that fracas of shrewd cars
and returning right after dinner
I perceive, exactly, your kingdom still
to be dusted off, the knee bandage
to be tried again!
*
You don't remember my golden shores, as if I think
obnoxious you lean out the balcony, without seeing
anything beyond your mind, which struggles to write
beautiful things. Otherwise with every gust of wind
you'd be there, at the hanging, enriched by your
richly metaphored foundations.
And then you'll see the blue sky, coloring itself with
your spite which leans out too, assisting you,
attending you as you embroider other small artifices,
or shipwreck, with your muse. And how sweet
to shipwreck in this wild sleep, and how sweet to not think
beyond the mania of seeing, touching, feeling
smelling your full repose.
Then you touch the foot, you spill it into the olifactory, you
take it by the hand and approach it, the sign on the segment
that pops up between the rocks, which covering you the houses
become fortresses, for your small town, that amuses itself
almost innocently, you raised the bull so much.
And you push it, the foot, to an open door, and you greet
the ladies (to the man you don't offer your hand). And then
you descend again, through naked piazzas
through no-man's land, alleys swollen with the
rain, which you don't see so much now that it's dry the sky
unsheathed you descend again, the hour accompanies you,
it's a mix of fate and your habit of making
every sob into one more life.
*
On a wholly human level, as if his journey were
unfinished, I said to him: "don't grab friendship
by the shirt," "this is finite." If you're not taking
journeys, if you're not taking advantage, at least take off your shirt
so I can see the sweat.
And he responded: "if
a line is wholly right, clear, if my whole
belonging is right," and I: "it's not only that you're on the right
line that tends to curve; it curves, it kisses your
hand." And he responded "but I set out furious,
I'm thinking over your words uselessly."
"They gaunt me." — viaduct conducted to the madness
of knowing you're with me, but distant and inaccessible, a
secret stabbing in the heart of things. They wither
they become scarcer, ever repeated, in a tight garland
around your finite brow.
I inherited the grass, some things, the hammers on
your brow, an increasingly dull tragedy.
From the grass I inherited its dull color, cut
the fodder in two. And chisel it, the future, before
you corresponding with yourself (before you saved yourself)
I fell. You fall trembling, overpowered, by your immense
brow.
And there was nothing beyond the fodder. Chiseled masterfully,
burrowed I picked out two of them. Trembling, trembling
miseries, small shiny plates.
*
Papers stamped for the incinerated a red
poppy lit up as if it were your grotesque
expectations I'd say if it weren't in so doing
I seek an illumination of plans despite
the inherent difficulties of your roughness. In the
rock in the street a verification of chaste
objects if you undervalue them and in the
largeness of the street there's also a tandem. In the
verecundity of enlightened subjects they governed
pools of small blood sparse is the ground of
undulating inkwells reborn when
you're broken.
