I keep a blue flask, inside it an ear and a portrait:

When night forces
the owl's feathers,
when the raucous cherry tree
shatters its lips and threatens
with husks that the ocean wind often penetrates,
I know that there are great sunken expanses,
quartz in ingots,
slime,
blue waters for a battle,
much silence,
many veins of retreats and camphors,
fallen things,
medals,
acts of tenderness,
parachutes, kisses...

It is only the passage from one day toward another,

a single bottle moving across the seas,

and a dining room to which come roses,

a dining room abandoned

like a thorn: I refer

to a shattered goblet, to a curtain,

to the depths of a deserted room through 

which a river flows dragging the stones.

It is a house set on the foundation of the

rain,

a two-storied house with compulsory

windows and strictly faithful climbing vines.

I go in the evening,

I arrive covered with mud and death,

dragging the earth and its roots,

and its vague belly where corpses

sleep with wheat,

metals,

overturned elephants.

But on top of everything there is a terrible,

a terrible,

hunger,

among, 

you know...