Wolf Centos. Simone Muench

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СКАЧАТЬ When tenderness seems tired,

      the girl nestles down in me

      with her she-wolf’s mask,

      places a word in the hollow

      of my mute being.

      Impossible to be alone

      in language, light of bird-laden

      lemon trees.

      We’re between blue & good evening,

      heaving with brilliants: the mortal

      glitter of the naked beach,

      the glass horizon.

      (It is the human that is alien.)

      Even with her severed tongue

      the she-wolf bathes herself

      in the blue vertigo in my mouth

      where the planets flicker.

      The orange tree breaks into foam

      & no god comes.

Who will take the madness from the trees?

      The petals of dead planets broken.

      What do they matter now, the deprivations.

      Your voice will never recover

      what was said once, so when you hold

      the hemisphere & once more take up the world,

      I can see myself in you as though I were sitting

      in a beautiful wound. I drink from your footprint

      & see: a red wolf strangled by an angel

      against the immeasurable sun. This terrifying

      world is not devoid of charms—

      the poppy that no girl’s finger has opened,

      farmhouses dark against a sublime blue,

      an airplane whistling from the other world.

      In the distance someone is singing. In the distance

      a slow, sweet song crowded with floating animals

      & small artifacts: bell jar, honeycomb, revolver.

      Can we describe the world this way—

      with stars & bullet holes? A presence or its contrary?

      Like dizzy horses that dissolve into a dust of sheen,

      I pass through them as they pass through me.

Stunned by gold, we see coming

      in full gallop, at vertiginous speed, the last sun,

      frail orbits, green tries, games of stars.

      We are looking for a way to live

      as the she-wolf of these clouds tumbles

      down through stricken dawn-dark, slanting

      through the quadrant seasons, deep

      between vineyard rows. With her teeth

      the she-wolf reaches the blonde braid of a star,

      a thing of gleaming: a radiant evanescence

      the blue dogs paw. Lick the dew

      opening beautifully inside my brain

      where everything is green like quetzal flowers

      or the light in the skull of a bird

      or a thousand tropics in an apple blossom—

      What’s there: the endless clear country road,

      a cold drink before sunset & then a bed.

      We are looking for a way to live.

In the space of a half-open gold door

      your body’s animals want to get out

      running among these rigid hills

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