the absurd,
we’ll cover ourselves with the gold of having nothing,
and will hatch the yet unborn wing
of night, the sister
of this orphan wing of day,
that by dint of being one no longer is a wing.
[CE]
XLIX
Murmured in restlessness, I cross,
my long suit of feeling, the Mondays
of truth.
Nobody seeks or recognizes me,
and even I have forgotten
from whom I might be.
A certain wardrobe, only she, will know
us all in the white leaves
of certificates.
That wardrobe, she alone,
while returning from each faction,
of each candelabrum
blind from birth.
Nor do I come upon anyone, beneath
this humus that iridesends39 the Mondays
of reason;
and I no more than smile at each spike
of the gratings, in the mad search
for the known.
Good wardrobe, open up for me
your white leaves;
I want at least to recognize 1,
I want the fulcrum, I at least
want to know of being.
Offstage where we dress,
there’s not, there Is no one: only leaves
opened up wide.
And always the suits letting go
by themselves, from the hangers
like ghastly guiding pointers,
and departing without bodies, vacant,
even to the prudent hint
of a grand wing stock with causes
and limits fried deep.
Right down to the bone!
[JM]
L
Cerberus four times
per day his padlock wields, opening
closing our sternums, with winks
we comprehend perfectly.
With astounded melancholic breeches,
childish in transcendental disarray,
standing, the poor ole man is adorable.
He jokes with the prisoners, chockfull
the groins with jabs. And lunkhead even
gnaws on some crust for them; but always
just doing his job.
In between the bars he sticks the fiscal
point, unseen, hoisting up the phalanx
of his pinky,
on the trail of what I say,
what I eat,
what I dream.
The raven wants there nevermore be insides,
and how we ache from this that Cerberus wants.
In a clockwork system, the imminent,
pythagorean! ole man plays
breadthwise in the aortas. And only
from time to night, by night
he somewhat skirts his exception from metal.
But, naturally,
always just doing his job.
[JM]
LII
And we’ll get up when we feel
like it, even though mama all luminosity
rouses us with melodious
and charming maternal anger.
We’ll laugh in secret about this,
biting the edge of the warm vicuña
quilts—and don’t do that to me!
Fumes from thatched huts—ah bunch
of scamps!—rising early to play
with bluish, bluing kites,
and, copping grinders and stones, they’d
pungently incite us with cow dung,
to draw us out
into the baby air that doesn’t know its letters yet,
to struggle over the strings.
Another time you’ll want to pasture
between your omphaloid hollows
avid caverns,
ninth months,
my drop curtains.
Or you’ll want to accompany the elders
to unplug the tap of a dusk,
so that all the water slipping away by night
surges during the day.
And you arrive dying of laughter,
and at the musical lunch,
popped roasted corn, flour with lard,
with
