Classic Poem

That time stands up vertically
in the rushed span of horizontal days,
separates itself from the pouring strands
of lit up streets.

How can departure from the sun,
from warm moments, be measured?
There was a time like winter,
when childhood chickens pricked me teasingly,
in a courtyard spread with remnants
of withered fruits.

A time like sundown
   at the height of noon,
  with the sun in the zenith
I was watching a bird
crucify itself in the nets of light
wondering when it would wake up
to resume its roving in the heart of this
frightening whiteness
till it disappeared
and the thread was completed
from the point of beginning
to arrival.

A time like sin—
though still a child
I'm middle-aged, befuddled by wine.
Failings nip at the flesh of my soul.
Not to mention my wicked falls.

A time both present and impossible—
I lured the guest, encouraged him to drink profusely,
thinking he might spill out his secrets,
but he stayed composed until my drinks were finished
while I crumbled on my side of the table,
vomiting up all that I've lived
for many loathsome years.

Mornings, the grounds of the city open their mouths
to the little women
who rush out with sleepy faces.
 You have a small nest on the surface of Paris,
 little lady, like the nest of a bird
 perched on a sill.
 What do you see before you
 but your city's sloping black tiles?
 You have a little rope to hang your bras,
 a flower vase,
 a bed.

Mornings the women rush out. Like birds
with tinted feathers, on escalators,
aging rapidly, staying awake
with perfumes and tobacco
emitting a fragrance their bodies mull over,
these bodies now fitted onto a frightening machine.

Every day he has this experience!

A SONG :

 You are exquisite
 and I am middle-aged
 contemplating my face on the surface of the Seine,
 smiling in tears.

 You are exquisite
 looking for love, but I follow
 lost traces.
 We should have met when I was young—
 then I would have loved you to madness and
 we could have departed together.

The human body descends alone to the pit,
searches for itself in stations,
sliding down dark alleyways
that transpose it to a faraway time.

Sad human body penetrates deeper,
hops like a monkey from one darkness in the road
to another,
following the traces of a woman who faced him
but she turned his eyes away.
He watched her in the glass of shop windows
till he disappeared. He is dazed,
late for his appointment,
enters apologizing,
taking off his clothes,
beating himself with his own hands.
Regretfully he offers up his limbs
to the throbbing machines.
Then he looks around,
finds himself thrown back
to the beginning of the same road.

Every day he has this experience.