LITMIR.BIZ

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      I am axling⁴⁸—don’t you hear the plummet gasping?

      —don’t you hear the reveilles champing?⁴⁹

      I am molding your love formula

      for all the hollows of this ground.

      Oh if only tacit volantes were available

      for all the most distant ribbons,

      for all the most diverse appointments.

      There, there, immortal dead one. There, there.

      Under the double arches of your blood, where

      one can only pass on tiptoes, even my father

      to go through there,

      humblest⁵⁰ himself until less than half a man,

      until being the first child that you had.

      There, there, immortal dead one.

      In the colonnade of your bones

      which not even sobs can topple,

      and in whose side not even Destiny could intrude

      even one of his fingers.

      There, there, immortal dead one.

      There, there.

      [CE]

LXVIII

      We’re at the fourteenth of July.

      It’s five in the evening. It rains all throughout

      some third corner of blotting paper.

      And more it rains from below aye it does upward.

      The hands two lagoons come forth

      from ten at bottom,

      of a murky Tuesday that for six days

      has been frozen in lachrymals.

      A week was beheaded

      with the sharpest of drops; all’s been done

      to make miserable swell

      in great railingless bar. Now we are

      okay, with this rain that cleanses

      and pleases and graces us with subtlety.

      We have at gross weight trudged, and, in sole

      defiance,

      our animal pureness whitened.

      And we ask for eternal love,

      for the absolute encounter,

      for all that passes from here to there.

      And we respond from where mine are not yours

      from what an hour the coda, being carried on,

      sustains and isn’t sustained. (Net.)

      And it was black, hung in a corner,

      without even uttering an iota, my paletot,

      a

      t

      f

      u

      l

      m

      a

      s

      T⁵¹

      [JM]

LXX

      Everyone smiles at the nonchalance with which I sub-

      merge⁵² to the bottom, cellular from foods aplenty and drinks ga-

      lore.

      Do suns get on bereft of viands? Or is there someone

      who feeds them grain as if to birdies? Frankly,

      I hardly know anything about this.

      Oh stone, benefactory pillow at last. Let us the living

      love the living, since it will for good dead things be

      afterwards. So much must we love them

      and pull them in, so much. Let us love the actuali-

      ties, for we shan’t ever again be as we are.

      For there aren’t interim Barrancos⁵³ in essential

      cemeteries.

      The payload goes in the upsurge, beak first. The journey clouts

      us in the core, with its dozen stairways, scal-

      ed, in the horizontifying⁵⁴ frustration of feet, in dread-

      ed empty sandals.

      And we shudder to step forth, for we know not whether

      we knock into the pendulum, or already have crossed it.

      [JM]

LXXI

      Coils the sun does in your cool hand

      and cautiously spills into your 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 whippt⁵⁵ 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.

      [JM]

LXXIII

      Another ay has triumphed. The truth is there.

      And whoever acts that way, won’t he know

      how to train excellent dijitigrades

      for the mouse Yes … No …?

      Another ay has triumphed and against no one.

      Oh exosmosis of water chemically pure.

      Ah my southerns. Oh our divines.

      I have the right then

      to be green and happy and dangerous, and to be

      the chisel, what the coarse colossal block fears;

      to make a false step and to my laughter.

      Absurdity, only you are pure.

      Absurdity, only facing you does this ex-

      cess sweat golden pleasure.

      [CE]

LXXV

      You are dead.

      What a weird way of being dead.

      Anybody would say you’re not. But, really, you be

      Dead.

      You voidly float behind that membrane

      which tick-tocking from zenith to nadir

      journeys from sunset to sunset,

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