Trace in the desert 1
The desert is cut in a plane
blue-orange-green
Zone of remains and buildings in constant
reconstruction
There is desire in the meeting of a crack
and a sharp dart
There is desert in the veiled sound of a body
In the mental shudder of the thicket
The ruins are not debris they are another order
Stripes of the realm, dregs of a profit plant
For being the channel of desire
Because every landscape aspires to erase
itself
Trace in the desert 2
Memory and the past do not meet
Such an extended bridge but without crimp plates
Where two watch the boxes of scarlet water
Each confined to himself
Eyes open in closed faces
On one side she unrolls her infinite folds
On the other he manages to grasp one end
Thus they remain for a moment one inside the other
Within and far from each other
Like a trace that follows in another painting
For oblivion to pass without violence
Read 3:15 am
An enamel fist, a flooded pediment
The streets limit the sides of the night
Every object, machine or new grail, is ligature in the earth
A body chopped in the snow, a sluice in the dome
To be here where love only seems to be a spell
The present sight against the plaster of seeing all, of forgetting none
To pile books in the windows to not to be alone
Or holding a broken pebble to bring silence
From a sunken shoulder
The word attend means to be between your back
and the dust
Sitting on a piece of furniture rotting under the sun
To make a detour to approach you from your presence
Looking all the way forward if you’re not there
Thinking about a countermove or pulling you to accommodate
my eyes
Correct everything and get out of the way
Flee rather than seek refuge, get away when you still can
—When there’s still something to get away from—
Deleuze
MCMXCV La Vaca Multicolor, city of yellow sand
I watch the magic glow of the machines, their mute order
Beside me sink thirty invisible days
Slowly they sink in the almost frozen water
They fall like fir needles [but fir trees are fake]
There is a zoo in the snow, a bird under the snow
Thirty lines to fix the dissolution:
Rituals of control of the written man begin
Think a gargoyle’s gaze upon broken roofs
Breathes academically against a wall
—Against the saltpeter that is salt that bites—
Willing to climb a dimly illuminated staircase
His body on the verge of losing balance or “prone to overflow”
Always attentive to the fable of life observe the razor in the sink
The newspaper is unreadable yes but there is light behind the blinds
They are the solar cults, the vibration of the technical day
Vanishing lines so as not to deafen, side lamp
like inner sky, consistent wind and sick metal
It’s the written man, it’s the written man
Just at the moment he knows best
He knows the willow in the snow, the willow of tomorrow
The thoughts of life beside his opaque body
Friends his gaze or his hand could touch
Alone with what he has destroyed each one is alone with what he loves
The white background of words clears what he sees
The fury of the bodies entrap what he says
A point of water in the passionate earth would stop
his fall
Translated by Louise Gibson
