Or

I

A fox and a dove have dropped their fables into a creek.
They have been listening to the drummer in
The center of the sun for too long.
They count the statues of primordial animals
That sleep in cracked rusty bowls day by day
Til their heads begin to throb. They wear human masks,
To lose the feel of their hair and feathers.
It is a pleasure to be nameless in this world.

II

There is a dying drummer in the middle of the sky.
The golden hands of beings called Awhile,
At, And, Along and After carry him away
Into the darkness which is someone’s face.
Afraid to sing, they see no bird, no blade of grass, no tree.
Afraid to lie, tombstones dance below.

 

heart

Thirst is not a woman that never leaves her apartment.
Black and white films don’t make her mad.
She doesn’t dream of a spiderweb nursing the eyes of coyotes,
Nor does she catch raindrops with her shoes.
She is half dead. She despises lakes, fountains and rivers in disguise
And the silence of molten tea spoons with a satyr
That keeps fourteen knives in his heart.

 

joke

A collector of evil faces which she nonchalantly folds
And keeps in one of her thousand closets
Along with dusty tax papers and books in the language
She isn’t going to use anymore, she comes,
She who precedes silence barefoot,
With a simple note or just a sound or a soul
Of a wind lost in that closet, a sound endlessly twisted
Like the tail of an extremely happy dog.
Each ear, she knows, is blocked.
Each verb, she thinks, is a silly joke.