33 / 180
33
tense,
crispé
, crouched up, stooping,
halted on the verge of change
on the brink of horizons dark and livid
like a burnished steel blade?
a sordid thrill of eternities
torn to pieces, a rotten garden
mud feeding diseased roots:
will this ruin then generate summer?
the Feasts of March cry on the windowpanes
and chill the eyes,
raindrops on the sea, poison
in the wind on the irises, geraniums,
in a chameleon garden,
toad hedges at the far end of the room,
slimy horror, morbid cadence.
Under a white sky slave to disillusion,
in a landscape of ice and silence,
a snow flake floated down slowly:
erratic torment, sweet grace,
this is the day I always wait for,
a spiral transforming every substance,
a spark, a Siberian whirlwind,
static deformation of the air,
a sudden mechanical apocalypse.
This is the time of the day when we die
and then we live again in bodies