Sad is his face like the face of a poet
a poet without a song
The foxes are howling in the yard
while the barbarian shreds the tablecloth;
Mrs Dalloway finds her voice and says:
“Doesn’t life seem incredible?”
There is no song, I know. But the body
sometimes talks on its own, likes mud
more than light and wiping out traces
makes it sick…
Poetry means, here, stand still on the carousel,
bring yourself peace as your ship goes down.
She asks if I like laughing
if dying young is worse.
She repeats the sentences twice
so laughing and dying
become just verbs for me to learn
She says so many things in English;
sticking out her tongue, unraveling it:
her sex wouldn’t do any better.
She lays down something that sounds
like the breathing of a sick heart;
she seems happy to have followers
in this enterprise.