(translated by Joseph Mulligan,

courtesy of Wesleyan University Press)

 

 

3 Poems from TRILCE,

 

 

XVIII

 

   Oh the four walls of the cell.

Ah the four whitening walls

that irrefutably face the same number. 

 

   Breading ground of nerves, evil breach,

through its four corners how it snaps

apart daily shackled extremities.

 

   Loving keeper of innumerable keys,

if you were here, if you could see

unto what hour these walls are four.

Against them we’d be with you, just the two,

more two than ever. And you wouldn’t even cry,

speak, liberator!

 

   Ah the four walls of the cell.

Meanwhile as for those that hurt me, most

the two lengthy ones that tonight

have something of mothers who now

deceased each lead through bromined slides,

a child by the hand.

 

   And only will I keep my hold,

with my right hand, that makes do for both,

upraised, in search of a tertiary arm

that must pupilate, between my where and when,

this stunted adulthood of man.

 

 

 

LXXI

 

 

   Coils the sun does in your cool hand

and cautiously spill into our curiosity.

 

   Quiet you. Nobody knows you’re in me

all throughout Quiet you Don’t breathe Nobody

knows my succulent snack of unity:

legion of obscurities, Amazonians in tears.

 

   Off go the wagons whippt through evening,

and between them mine, facing back, at the fatal

reins of your fingers.

Your hands and my hands reciprocal offer

poles on guard, practicing depressions

and temples and sides.

 

   You too be quiet, Oh future twilight, pull yourself

together to laugh inwardly, at this rut

of red pepper gamecocks,

blinged out with cupola

blades, with cerulean widow halves.

Rejoice orphan; drink your cup of water

at the bodega on any corner whatsoever.

 

 

\

 

 

LXXVII

 

 

It hails so hard, as if to remind me

and increase the pearls

I’ve gathered from the same snout

of every tempest.

 

   May this rain not dry up.

At least allow me now

to fall for her, or be buried

soaked in water

that will surge from all the fires.

 

   How far until this rain will hit me?

I’m afraid of being left with one side dry;

afraid that she may leave, without having tasted me

in the droughts of incredible vocal chords,

through which,

to reach harmony,

one must always arise—never descend!

Don’t we in fact arise downward?

 

   Rain, sing, on the coast still without a sea!

 
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