Epistle To The Transients
I resume my day of a rabbit,
my night of an elephant in repose.
And, to myself, I say:
this is my immensity in the raw, in jugfuls,
this is my graceful weight, that sought me below to become a bird;
this is my arm
that on its own refused to be a wing,
there are my scriptures,
there my alarmed cullions.
A lugubrious island will illuminate me continental,
while the capitol leans on my intimate collapse
and the lance-filled assembly adjourns my parade.
But when I die
from life and not from time,
when my two suitcases become two,
this will be my stomach in which my lamp fit in pieces,
this that head that atoned for the torments of the circle in my steps,
these those worms that my heart counted one by one,
this will be my solidary body
over which the individual soul is watching; this will be
my navell in which I killed my innate lice,
this my thing thing, my dreadfull thing
Meanwhile, convulsively, harshly,
my bit convalesces,
suffering like I suffer the direct language of the lion:
and, because I have existed between two brick potentates,
I too convalesce, smiling at my lips.
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