A Sketch for Aphoristic Poetry
The edge of the empire is its most important part. The edge slips easily,
but you can say it's right here. Guns must be kept in their holsters.
Lead-blue zinc waves boom ahead of us once again,
I believe you grasp the image. The stream brings in driftwood, seashells
and sediment, that is, everything I put into my lines. A good turn.
Last year you wrote, from the other side: you're a lot like me,
I didn't understand a word. Since then I've been searching for an image
to reflect distance: foam that washes away my traces, trembling of the horizon,
ocean galloping to the rhythm of ancient meters? But it just isn't right.
And how to describe a memory of a meeting (a close range at last): a raven
flaps its wings fiercely in a cave, the traces of a campfire against the aurora,
an actor hollering the lines of Hamlet alone on the beach...
But the ocean is leading a life of its own: it isn't a stage of any drama of passions
or a counterpart for an abandoned soul, not even when the stars are tingling
loudly, again, a rabbit is run over by a car.
Still I went through something completely different when I had to run down
the fire ladder and someone ran behind me but didn't reach me or when someone
stopped to stare at me on Broadway.
Although I keep talking about the feminine gender, I didn't make a single gesture,
I stayed behind wondering about the grip of religions, in general, that is.
And it is said that the tongue clinks on its own, it's covered with a skein of knots
and every secured sentence is just a rusting lid over a swarming gorge.
But something pierces through: an odd feeling that the midriff comprehends more than
the empire is a landmark just like a self-exalted old pagan god
that has been moved out of the way. Even I function like a machine. Every stimulus
Can you still hear me? I already said that the edge escapes easily, you can't
see the same landscape as yesterday, you can't start explaining it now.