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LXII
SCHABAT
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 With
sealed eyes, vesperal,
in front of the gleaming candelabra
of saturday, my mother. The half-shadow
flatters its strings. Wanes the hour between
the lit candles.
The dead shake themselves – fever: troops,
exultant, pitiless, pilgrimage,
as candelabra, in mirrors. Since friday,
avaricious, the
agony. In the panes,
stunned by the clangor, the sun,
phylactery of goodbye, believes it is dreaming.
The house is
a sob. The horizon
cuts across the house: face of dusk
gone between the never and the never.
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PRELUDE
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After,
after the wind between two peaks,
and the brother scorpion that rears up,
and the red tides over the day.
Voracious volcano: halo without empire.
The vulture will die: lax punishment.
After, after the hymn between two vipers.
After the night that we do not know
and outstretched in the never a sole body
silent as light. After the wind.
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LVII
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The cup of
coffee, the coffeepot,
the steam that soothes my skeleton,
the obedient pan, the blackened
amulet, the mustard, the icebox,
the
broken sink, the jaunty
tureen, the finicky airs of the flirtatious
iridescent vase, the parapet
of vanilla, saffron and spring.
Place
of integrities: my free will...
Oh happy kitchen: when I die
and my time – without time – vibrates and grows,
in
faithful purring may all that is mine and is clear
return to your wild mat
and may your steam – without end – dispel it.
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