where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the brightness
in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies
my son
my son
let us always scuff along through the colour of the world
that looks bluer than the metro and astronomy
we are too skinny
we have no mouth
our legs are stiff and knock together
our faces have no form like the stars
crystal points without strength fire the mad basilica
burned: the zigzags crack
telephone
bite the rigging liquefy
the arc
climb
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood
1918. Translation by William Rees.
