That was not the summer of aspic
and cold veal. It was so hot
the car seat stung my thighs
and the rearview mirror swam
with mirage. In the back seat
the leather grip was noosed by twine.
We were not poor but we had
the troubles of the poor.
She who had been that soft snore
beside the Nytol, open-mouthed,
was gone, somewhere, somewhere
there was a bay, there was a boat,
I am the man
Whose name is mud
But what’ s in a name
To shame one who knows
Mud does not stain
Clay he’ s made of
Dust Adam became —
The dust he was —
Was he his name
The statue, that cast
Of my solitude
Has found its niche
In this kitchen
Where I do not eat
Where the bathtub stands
Upon cat feet —
I did not advance
I cannot retreat
1
Is this writing mine
Whose name is this
Did I underline
What I was to miss?
2
An upheaval of leaves
Enlightens the tree
Rooted it receives
Gusts on a spree
3
Beauty makes me sad
Makes me grieve
I see what I must leave
4
Scaffold, gallows
Do whose will
Who hallows wood
To build, kill
Stone worn
Overgrown
Pristine thorns
Sheep shorn
Tinkling below
Roofless walls
Rooks overlook
I told you so
Babbles the brook
Here and there
White hairs appear
On my chest —
Age seasons me
Gives me zest —
I am a sage
In the making
Sprinkled, shaking
In their doorways women sit sewing
By the good light of afternoon
And nothing is beyond knowing
Though the sun shall go down soon
A shepherdess near a bramble ditch
And the Princess in the Alcazar
Keep the same precise stitch
And they both can see far
And when the knell tolls
All are wondering who —
If it is a lady, many bells
For a beggar, one will do
So they stood
Upon ladders
With pruning hooks
Backs to the king
Who took his leave
Of gardening
This morning
I am forlorn
As he was then
No one born
After the war
Remembers when
The niche narrows
Hones one thin
Until his bones
Disclose him
His body ahead
Of him on the bed
He faces his feet
Sees himself dead,
A corpse complete
With legs and chest
And belly between
Swelling the scene
Of the crime you left,
Taking your time,
Angel of Death
