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where we dress,

      there’s not, there Is no one: only leaves

      opened up wide.

      And always the suits letting go

      by themselves, from the hangers

      like ghastly guiding pointers,

      and departing without bodies, vacant,

      even to the prudent hint

      of a grand wing stock with causes

      and limits fried deep.

      Right down to the bone!

      [JM]

L

      Cerberus four times

      per day his padlock wields, opening

      closing our sternums, with winks

      we comprehend perfectly.

      With astounded melancholic breeches,

      childish in transcendental disarray,

      standing, the poor ole man is adorable.

      He jokes with the prisoners, chockfull

      the groins with jabs. And lunkhead even

      gnaws on some crust for them; but always

      just doing his job.

      In between the bars he sticks the fiscal

      point, unseen, hoisting up the phalanx

      of his pinky,

      on the trail of what I say,

      what I eat,

      what I dream.

      The raven wants there nevermore be insides,

      and how we ache from this that Cerberus wants.

      In a clockwork system, the imminent,

      pythagorean! ole man plays

      breadthwise in the aortas. And only

      from time to night, by night

      he somewhat skirts his exception from metal.

      But, naturally,

      always just doing his job.

      [JM]

LII

      And we’ll get up when we feel

      like it, even though mama all luminosity

      rouses us with melodious

      and charming maternal anger.

      We’ll laugh in secret about this,

      biting the edge of the warm vicuña

      quilts—and don’t do that to me!

      Fumes from thatched huts—ah bunch

      of scamps!—rising early to play

      with bluish, bluing kites,

      and, copping grinders and stones, they’d

      pungently incite us with cow dung,

      to draw us out

      into the baby air that doesn’t know its letters yet,

      to struggle over the strings.

      Another time you’ll want to pasture

      between your omphaloid hollows

      avid caverns,

      ninth months,

      my drop curtains.

      Or you’ll want to accompany the elders

      to unplug the tap of a dusk,

      so that all the water slipping away by night

      surges during the day.

      And you arrive dying of laughter,

      and at the musical lunch,

      popped roasted corn, flour with lard,

      with lard,

      you tease the decubital peasant

      who today once again forgets to say buenos días,

      those días of his, buenos with the b of barrens,

      that keep backfiring for the poor guy

      through the dentilabial

      v that holds vigil in him.

      [CE]

LV

      Samain would say⁴⁰ the air is calm and of a contained sadness.

      Vallejo says today Death is soldering each limit to each strand of lost hair, from the bucket of a frontal, where there is seaweed, lemon balm that sings of divine seedbeds on the alert, and antiseptic verses with no master.

      Wednesday, with dethroned fingernails peels back its own nails of camphor, and instills through dusty sieves, echoes, turned pages, incrustations,

      the buzzings of flies

      when there is corpse, and clear spongy suffering and some hope.

      A sickman reads La Prensa,⁴¹ as if at a lectern.

      Another is laid out palpitating, longirostrine,

      about to be buried.

      And I notice a shoulder is still in place

      and almost stays ready behind this one, the other side.

      The afternoon has now passed sixteen times through the

      empatrolled⁴² subsoil,

      and is almost absent

      in the yellow wood number

      on the bed that’s been unoccupied for so long

      over there . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

      in front.

      [CE]

LVI

      Every day I wake blindly

      to work so as to live; and I eat breakfast,

      not tasting a bit of it, every morning.

      Not knowing if I have achieved, or even more, never,

      something that explodes with flavor

      or is merely the heart and that returned now, will lament

      to what extent this is the least.

      A child could grow up bloated with happiness

      oh dawns,

      before the grief of parents unable to avoid

      wrenching us from their dreams of love into this world;

      before those who, like God, from so much love

      understood themselves even as creators

      and loved us even to doing us harm.

      Fringes of a invisible weft,

      teeth that ferret from neuter emotion,

      pillars

      free of base and crown,

      in the great mouth that has lost speech.

      Match after match in the blackness,

      tear after tear in clouds of dust.

      [CE]

LVII

      The highest points craterized, the points

      of love, of capital being, I drink, I fast, I ab-

      sorb heroin for

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