HANDS IN THE GRAVE
XVI
Maybe meaning is in gazing till it hurts.
Or in stumbling over the halo of a dream.
Or in letting yourself be carried along
like an abject creature
surrounded by oppression and misery.
But how to know where to crawl
or how to turn to snow,
to bloody torridness.
XVII
I offer the pupil of my eye,
my right leg,
but memory moves away from us,
that stinging in the gut,
that damned tattoo.
I could delay the fall,
the ashes, the abyss.
My flesh will surely have
the smell of fields,
of resignation.
XVIII
What can we do with ourselves if not console each other,
make of this emptiness a sentence,
discipline hatred,
fill this space with fragmented visions.
How futile getting up with this foggy soliloquy,
this sandglass under one’s arm.
XIX
Here I lie down,
here I get up,
a way of putting it,
for I see nothing but gangrenous bodies,
nothing but vultures waiting for an exquisite corpse.
And they look like inoffensive little birds to me.
And I give them to eat from my leg,
from the flesh of my leg,
from the bone of my back.
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