from Trilce
XXVII
(translated: Clayton Eshleman)
That spurt frightens me,
good memory; powerful master, implacable
cruel sweetness. It frightens me.
This house pleases me perfectly, a perfect
spot for this not knowing where to be.
Let's not go in. It frightens me, this permission
to return by the minute, across exploded bridges.
I push no further, sweet master,
courageous memory, sad
songskeleton.
How the content, that of this enchanted house,
gives me quicksilver deaths, and plugs
with lead my outlets
to dry actuality.
The spurt that doesn't know what we're up to,
frightens me, terrifies me.
Courageous memory, I push no further.
Blond and sad skeleton, whistle, whistle.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment