Wheel With a Single Spoke (15 page)

that I and my lions,

that we, we who came to greet him,

had nothing womanly in us . . .

He told me deafly:

– All my family was choked with fear

when I departed

toward the beyond.

He leaned closer and said:

– So, to tell you the whole story, absolutely everything;

I will try to describe what I saw through the porthole.

– No, I told him.

Suddenly, all my translucent lions turned to him and let their

muzzles gape,

starving,

with translucent, starving

teeth.

– Okay, he said, if you don't want to know, I won't tell you.

– I don't want to know, I said.

– Should I go? he asked.

– How can you go, I responded, can't you see my sister is in love

with you?

– Call your relatives, then, he said, I'm staying.

– We're not calling anyone, I said, but stay.

My translucent lions

adhered to one another.

My translucent lions

adhered fast together.

They turned into a shield.

I grew tired and stretched out across it.

– Let me pick you up and carry you on the shield.

– Pick me up, I shouted, carry me.

An angel came to me and said:

An angel came to me and said:

Then the angel, ah, the angel, ah, the angel, ah, the angel

left on wings of gold, and flew

through air of gold.

Butterflies of gold

fluttered in the halo of the angel of gold.

It flew golden,

it was utterly, utterly of gold.

It left toward a distance of gold,

where set a sun of gold.

It left toward a distance of gold,

where set a sun of gold.

Unable to die

inapt to be

I run

through unknowing.

It's hard to accept

that I am as I am.

The place of heaven

is under the earth.

But the starving earth

devours heaven.

An angel came to me and said:

– Wouldn't you like to buy a dog?

I was in no shape to answer.

The words I would have shouted back

were growls and barks.

– Wouldn't you like to buy a dog?

the angel asked, holding in his arms

my heart

barking,

letting blood like a tail.

– Wouldn't you like to buy a dog?

the angel asked me

while my heart

let blood like a tail.

It has begun to see through you.

Look, eye, look,

you are much harder than before

and more speechless.

I see an animal of great size

lay an egg of great size.

Look, eye, and be afraid.

The souls have tired.

Let's kiss the bird's egg

and bid it

farewell.

I see an animal of great size.

Its breath is green

its eyes are verdant

its teeth are green

and its claws, teeth.

Look, eye, look

and bid it farewell.

It began to see through us

some time ago.

I feel it began to see through us

some time ago,

as though someone peered

through us

And toward what, we do not know.

I could kill her

with a single blow.

She giggles at me,

she grins.

She meets my eyes

with her glistening eyes.

She holds her hand out toward me,

she shakes, grinning, giggling,

her dark hair.

But I – I could kill her

with a single blow.

Now, she starts to speak

soft words, naïve, playful.

She looks at me, curiously,

she frowns for a moment

then

she grins, giggles.

She looks in my eyes

with her glistening eyes.

While I watch her

and could kill her

with a single blow.

The approaching wave has turned to stone midair

O, even you, my love, have stopped

in total non-movement

And time has a fever

O, it burns me

The moment is set like a pearl

and the wave-drops hang in the air

You, all I can shout, you

and the word becomes visible

slowly, slowly, as one sees the dusk settle,

a word of three letters: you.

The monstrous animal, – understanding –

has stopped, and become visible . . .

Ah, how happy were the two of us,

no, we were never happy,

but here, dance across my hands,

dance across my palms held

out to you.

Shoed horse, won't you crush my fingers . . .

you crush the bones in my fingers,

horse with iron shoes.

But who else is thrown into the air

like the water of a fountain?

You're blushing, oh, you're blushing . . .

You could strike from flight

an eagle . . .

and still be not full, not full,

your mouth red with feathers

with bloody feathers.

And no, you are not full.

Better to sleep on my right shoulder,

tender child, tired child.

Ah, your starving rat teeth

work through this moment's collar bone.

Get out, wipe them off, put them out!

Or come here, then, let me

lick your tears . . .

A poison of abject, deceitful tears,

so sincere . . .

Ah, how happy were the two of us,

no, we were never happy.

Slow! Go slow!

Don't you see? The stones are tired.

They're sleeping, Lord, they're sleeping.

The stones are very tired.

Keep the horses away!

And you, what are you doing over there, you . . .

I'm talking to you! Pay attention!

It's too noisy, this sunrise.

The stones are tired.

The rising moon needs to shut up!

Take care, keep quiet. Quiet!

The stones are tired.

A poet, like a soldier,

has no life of his own.

His own life is wrecks

and ruins.

With the forceps of his cerebrum he lifts

the emotions of ants,

brings them closer and closer to his eye

until they and his eye become one.

He puts his ear to the belly of a starving dog.

His nose smells the half-open muzzle

until his nose and the dog's muzzle

are the same.

During waves of heat

he fans himself with flocks of birds

he startles into flight.

None of you should believe a poet when he cries.

His tear is never his own.

He has wiped tears from things

and cries things' tears.

A poet is like time.

Faster or slower,

more deceitful or more truthful.

Be careful not to say anything to a poet.

Be especially careful not to say something true.

Really, be careful not to say something heartfelt.

Just then, he will claim he said it,

and he will make the claim such that

all of you will say, It's true,

he said it.

I beg you, above all

never touch a poet!

Do not put your hand on a poet!

. . . except when your hand

is thin as a ray.

Only then your hand might

pass straight through him.

Otherwise, it will not pass,

your fingers will stick to him,

and he will be the one to brag

he has more fingers than you do.

And all of you will have to say, Yes,

it's true, he has more fingers . . .

Better, if you can believe me,

it would be better if you never

touched a poet.

. . . And he's not even worth a touch . . .

A poet, like a soldier,

has no life of his own.

And yet, I have seen a bird

lay eggs while it flew –

And yet, I have seen someone cry

while he laughed –

And yet, I have seen a stone

while it was –

I cry before the number five –

the last supper, minus six.

Where are you, you who are,

and you who are no more,

where are you?

Break this word, it is my body.

Blood may flow from a syllable.

For you will I make wine from V and I

and gentleness from a barbarous body.

Whoever kisses me, kisses me.

I will stay with you eleven.

Five of us are here, six have left;

the last supper cries before the number five.

Today we have founded loss,

pain, departure.

More stone, said the stones,

we are more stone than stones,

said the stones.

With each word we speak

we are more stone than we are.

Shoe yourself, O horse,

who stands in place of heaven.

Strike us with your horseshoe

so we will spark

and sparks will stand for words.

I can only growl at my long-necked ancestors,

that is, ex-stones

chipped by horseshoes.

Maybe in the end a few sparks will come

from the stones

and be the speech of stones.

Horse, O horse,

who stands in place of heaven,

shoe yourself in iron.

We do not have axles strong enough

for the wheel of our body's meat.

– Where are you going, butterfly carriage?