Let life begin from that dog
lying, or from that dying ivy
that has a hard sod, in marble.
Let it give a new signal, a blaze,
the naked stomach of the one who speaks
gazing at his laceless shoes,
let the raven detach from the wall too
resplendent like a soldier’s boot.
And let it be seen, from the way the shadow changes
within the sink, that
something is happening, and let the greatest attention be paid
to the intervals
between two bureaucratic matters to be dealt with,
precisely when the birth statement
mistakenly changes name and family,
or the bank statement illustrates the emptiness
of the bag. Right then.
(In the meantime, standing between two people
who were late, looking at their wrists
raised level with their faces,
a lady has taken a picture of a sheet
lying on the ground. There a great phone number
stood out, printed
black on white.)