SUMMER
We are not of that kind. This is not what the January wind whispered about. Too many
goggle eyes flocked together at midday without shadows, in the core of ripeness that
grows luxuriant, who can still remember the humility of a grain of seed, the silent secret
of the very beginning of that journey. Mad is (stronger! more!) the clamor of all things
and there is no innocence in the hot heart of a stone or a blade of grass. I cannot recall
your face.
(Scattered pieces of the night, black sediments of the day. Hate discovered in my throat is
more repulsive than yesterday’s envy. If I say: I cannot recall your face, and this is only a
verse from someone else’s poem, then even that face that I have forgotten is no longer yours.)