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Abu Kasem’s Slippers
when autumn comes I put on Abu Kasem’s slippers and I stamp
with my black blood I stamp
on the grape berries
on the pitch darkness in which a painter is pouring out lilies
and in his autumn, in his bitter flesh I stamp –
wake up you madman and swallow the colours
stretch your bones, sanctify your gaze and come with me
to mourn the cranes
under these aerials with which we catch birds
under these domes in which we burn mice
under these airplanes with which we catch clouds –
it’s autumn and in autumn I put on Abu Kasem’s slippers
I wear them as if they were two bottles of champaigne
two birds on my legs
I listen to them and they are empty like two tin ears
in which bells are ringing
but what sort of a dahlia would cry inside a dahlia
and what sort of an oak would collapse into its own body?
Abu Kasem, there’s no one here with me to mourn for the cranes,
just a stone hand falling down in water.