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Poem

(fragment)

English version by Liviu Martinescu

50.
oddly the leaves seem to count us
in their fall
houses shaped as a shrill sound
nobody lives in nobody
often the poor hear the nought in objects
blind people's hands do not signify
in litheness of pure
bars stroking one word
that thought-lives us
imitating the wistfulness of
unborn gods
we sink too soon
in the sleep-iron landscape
our fingers deafened
by the cranial blade of computers
surrounded by liquid helium solitude
and pounded heart
in the vacuum mouth of objects
we can only be saved by the word
the word that grinds its own shape
with the intensity of a star
breathing its own catastrophe
the word through which the violet
ribs of children can be seen
sequential workers
their complexion as dark as statistics
the gauze bandages of goods
hiding rotting canals
we live in approximation
our eyes shredded
by speed
nonplussed we fail no notice
that our dogs return from hunting
bearing sumerian tablets on their collars
who are you coming out of the net of time
to touch our civilization
with a myrtle sprig
ay sleep hauls cities
on paltry claws
their music a breeze from the future
yet cybernetic bells snow down
on blue deafness

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