Quand douleur

chant dans l’arbre du cœur

Et la solitude sourit en chatoyant comme un larme

Ma passion: me taire jusqu’à l’adieu

s’éteint sans les pétales du feu

Tous les chemins enneigés mènenet

à la ville du rêve de la faim

Qui est-ce qui donne salut pour les heureux?

Quel orage frappe le sort inconnu?

Où est la maison noir où ils flambent

les oiseaux tremblant du vent?

Il neige doucemnet: c’est un mariage blanc

entre terre et ciel vraiment

Il y a un  paysage du bonheur

Il y a un paysage pour les fleurs

peut-être au bord de la peur

Après que ces voix tristes avec grand coup d’aile

volent-ils par vide air

Le soleil va sombrer au sommeil éternel

Alors le visage sera comme la Terre Sainte:

inexpugnable si tendre

Alors la mort devient

une haleine longue du temps

Sur ma tête pose lentement sa main

le crépuscule qui est mon ami bien

Pendant que les murs fragiles tombent

Pourquoi l’amour est l’ombre du monde?

The dream is a death. Shameful.

Somebody (SOMEBODY!) in whose hand the lock flies

open — the bellowing darkness breaks out.

THE KEY THAT OPENS THE SECRET IS THE SAME THAT LOCKS IT.

THE SAME MOUTH BREATHES COLD AND WARM ALIKE.

MY DEAREST ENEMY: THE DOUBTS IS OBSCENE.

The girl has eyes like lemon slices on a martini glass.

THE AXE STRIKES — ITS COUNTLESS SOUND-WAVES

       ARE THE SILENCE.

Jéhtamet makde szabboli; who could’ve dreamt it?

THE SOUL IS THE RELIC OF WINGS —

       INTERIORIZED EQUIVALENCY.

Out-laid rails,

muffled megaphone mouths,

                                                                                     test-tube god.

WHAT ELSE, BUT A PRISON-MASK GROWING TOGETHER

       WITH A CEMETERY?

The guard with his machine gun begins a howling.

Guide Blake to the water trough; he might get thirsty.

In the misery-chasm of the mind, a snowmist blossom

              is a charity-blessing.

I see my future; obese church-beggar,

knotted hair fallen into blind courtyards.

Tampons, dressings bathe bloody scalpels,

a dog suckles two white lambs;

a shrill reality in the dream, a nameless

open wound is their existence.

Far fire. Troops of ghosts are forever

flowing slowly like a convoy of vans

carrying meat in the wee hours.

The dew in my palm mirrors a face.

My aunt, porcelain-pale, lies lightly

on the iron bed in the alms-hospital, eskimo

soapstone-sculpture, translucid from bed-sores;

I pick up your pea-memories dropped along the path,

I learn your tattooed camp-number. The carrion-

              consuming wind howls —

My dead dog’s mouth is shut. Human and beast,

they are relatives in the agony. Barb-wired pines;

terrible spring makes the sky tremble.

On unbreakable roofs, the snow is a feast.

A dream hibernates

in the ice-glow of tv screens.

The night puts on its iron gloves.

The ticket controller’s stubborn profile

is tattoed onto the streetcar’s window.

The debris of windy fall fields

assemble like beggars at public washrooms,

the sky is a ragged coat on their backs.

Camomiles embroider the river banks,

snuggle a bird-corpse.

The blood-stink of army posts

seep through the rose garden.

– The mineral springs are dry. The gold mines are exhausted;
the roof/ribs collapse one after another.
What once was enriching, is now impoverished –

– Our open grave is a wound in the Earth —
to be buries is to be covered
by a scab of soil –

– For the prisoner the day breaks out earlier
or the prisoner merely observes it earlier.
The prisoner can guess nothing about the times –

– The border is a barbed-wire rosary;
each bead is a surveillance station along the way.
There is no escape from the guard-dogs –

– What the detective detects can detect him.
This reflection of detection is symmetrical;
surveillance is subversion —
to counter surveillance, counter-subvert –

– A white ambulance in the snowfall.
Trains are coming from far, their roofs are crusted by snow.
Somewhere it had been snowing; perhaps it also snows just now.
You can be rescued –