To express. Nothing can be expressed.
Fire under a stove lid. Anastasia is making pancakes.
December. Before dawn. In a village near Jaszuny.
~
I should be dead already, but there is work to do.
~
From human speech to the muteness of verse, how far!
~
It spreads out, the valley, signs, lights.
~
The mild valley of those who are eternally alive.
They walk by green waters.
With red ink they draw on my breast
A heart and the signs of a kindly welcome.
~
To praise. Only this has been left
To the one who ponders, slowly,
Misfortune upon misfortune and from which side they struck.
~
People near me don’t know how difficult it is to pretend that
nothing happened, that everything is normal.
~
I loved God with all my strength on the sandy roads that wound
through focus.
~
Where is the memory of those days that were your days on earth
And effectuated joy and pain and were for you the universe.
~
Low, beneath, in darkness,
A table and on it a thick book
And a hand inscribing something…
~
At the gate of Hell she stood, naked.
~
I want to describe the world as Lucretius did.
Yet there have been too many complications of late.
And the words in the dictionary are too few.
So I just say of the world, like Galileo: and yet it moves.
~
She slipped out of her panties, Lady Polixena.
~
My love in the dream, a squirrel in a hazel bush.
~
Cities! You have never been described.
~
The grown-ups led the cortege, deep in their stupid conversations.
~
The river Wilia flows, indifferent.
~
Stricken with pity and loathing.
No comments:
Post a Comment