English

POEM NO. XIII Holding the razorblade my arms became severed and fell off. Looking closer I see how cold and pale they are as if seriously threatened by something. Confronted with this I stood my pair of lost arms up as candleholders to decorate my room with. The arms are dead but seem to show all the more nothing but fear of me. Such frail etiquette I consider more lovely than any flower basin.

POEM NO. X: BUTTERFLY In the tattered wallpaper I see a butterfly dying. Secret mouthpiece bearing endless traffic to and from the other world. One day in the mirror I see on my beard a butterfly dying. Wings collapsed in exhaustion the butterfly eats the meager dew that collects glistening from my exhaled breath. If I die while blocking the mouthpiece off with my palm the butterfly too as if starting up after resting shall fly away. Never do I let any word of this leak out.

POEM NO. IX Each day it seems fiery winds blew but now at last the great hand has come to my waist. As soon as the smell of my sweat can permeate the rapturous valleys of its fingertips Fire! It shall fire. In my bowels I feel the weighty barrel of the gun and its slippery mouth against my tightly shut lips. Then it seems the gun will fire and my eyes close but rather than a round of ammunition I toward my own real mouth pushed what and spat it out?

POEM NO. VII One bough in the land of eternal banishment ÔÇó Flower budding on the one bough ÔÇó Flora of a unique April ÔÇó 30 cycles ÔÇó Bright mirror that appears on both sides shortly before/after each of the 30 cycles ÔÇó Full moon that faces a horizon giggling like little sprouts and just now just now is crestfallen ÔÇó In mountain stream air the full moon scarred all over is sentenced to having its nose chopped off and the riotous ÔÇó Land of banishment is flowed through by a single message from home ÔÇó I barely covered myself!

POEM NO. III a quarreling person is none other than a person who had not been quarreling and also a quarreling person was even a person who does not quarrel and so if a quarreling person wants to view some quarreling should that person view the quarreling of a person who had not been quarreling or view the quarreling of a person who does not quarrel or view the not quarreling of a person who had not been quarreling or of a person who does not quarrel it will suffice

POEM NO. II when my father dozes off beside me i become my father and also i become my father's father and even so while my father like my father is just my father why do i repeatedly my father's father's father's . . . when i become a father why must i lopingly leap over my father and why am i that which while finally playing all at once my and my father's and my father's father's and my father's father's father's roles must live?

13ChildrenRushdownaStreet.
(AdeadendalleyisSuitable.)

The1stChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The2ndChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The3rdChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The4thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The5thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The6thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The7thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The8thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The9thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The10thChildsaysit'sfrightening.

The11thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The12thChildsaysit'sfrightening.
The13thChildsaysit'sfrightening.

BOOK V

The eastward rocks of Almeria's bay
Answer long farewells of the travelling sun
With softest glow as from an inward pulse
Changing and flushing: all the Moorish ships
Seem conscious too, and shoot out sudden shadows;
Their black hulls snatch a glory, and their sails
Show variegated radiance, gently stirred

Now twice the day had sunk from off the hills
While Silva kept his watch there, with the band
Of stalwart Gypsies. When the sun was high
He slept; then, waking, strained impatient eyes
To catch the promise of some moving form
That might be Juan — Juan who went and came
To soothe two hearts, and claimed nought for his own:
Friend more divine than all divinities,
Quenching his human thirst in others' joy.
All through the lingering nights and pale chill dawns
Juan had hovered near; with delicate sense,

BOOK III

Quit now the town, and with a journeying dream
Swift as the wings of sound yet seeming slow
Through multitudinous pulsing of stored sense
And spiritual space, see walls and towers
Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance,
Giving no sign of that warm life within
That moves and murmurs through their hidden heart.