Verra la morte e avra i tuoi occhi. C. Pavese "Death will come, and she will have your eyes" C. Pavese 1 Things and people arise Amongst us. And both are stark, and both are hard on the eyes. It’s best to live in the dark. From a park bench, I spy a family walking in-stride, that quickly passes me by. I am repulsed by light. It’s January. Calendars mark winter time. It is bleak. Once I’m fed up with the dark, I will begin to speak. 2 It’s time. I’m poised to begin. It matters not where. Lips part. I could as well keep it in. Perhaps it’s better I start. Of what? Of Nights. Of days. Or – nothing of any kind. Or, maybe, of things. To raise things and to leave behind people. None of whom will remain. And I will die with them all. This labor would be in vain. A writing upon wind’s wall. 3 The blood in my veins is cold. Its chill is more feral than a river iced to its core. I’m not very fond of man. I don’t like their look. I shun all people. Faces appear to graft onto life an un- ending, horrid veneer. Something I find in them all encloses my mind in gloom. Something that tries to cajole God only knows whom. 4 Things are nicer. They’re not made out of evil or good outwardly. And if you prod into them – at their root. Inside of all things – is dust. Wood-borer beetles and brittle mosquito grubs. Uncomfortable to the hand. Dust. Flick on the light, and only dust is revealed. Even if, to our sight, things are hermetically sealed. 5 The old cabinet, too, inside and outside, for me, looks identical to Notre Dame de Paris. Darkness upon its shelves. Dust mop and bishop’s stole can’t wipe the dust. Itself, the thing, doesn’t care at all, it doesn’t try to refresh or wipe clean a dusty spot. For dust is surely time’s flesh; time’s very flesh and blood. 6 Lately I simply collapse to sleep in the light of day. It is my death, perhaps, trying to lead astray, although I am breathing air, bringing the mirror beside my mouth, - how will I ever bear not-being out in the light. I am unmoving. My two hips are ice-cold and thin. Veins of a clear blue, shine on my marble skin. 7 Surprising us with its form and angles, the thing resorts to quickly fall out from the world order of all words. A thing can’t stand or be on the move. It’s absurd to think. The thing is the space, beyond which, there is no thing. A thing can be dropped, burned, pulled apart, or struck. Thrown. But the thing, in turn, won’t yell loudly: “Fuck!” 8 A tree. A shadow. The earth for the roots underneath. Monograms that curve. Piles of rocks. Clay. Leaves. Roots. Interweave and blend. A stone, whose weight at once frees from the prevalent system of knots and bonds. Unmovable. It cannot be lifted or moved once set. Shadow. A man in its spot, just like a fish in a net. 9 The thing. And its brown color. Its outlines blurred. Twilight. Nothing around. Nothing else. Nature mortes. Death will come, discover the body, whose calm will reflect death’s visit like a lover’s, with the same effect. Skull, skeleton, sickle in hand – this absurdity, all lies: “Death will come and she will have your eyes” 10 Mother to Christ, at a loss: - Are you my God or son? You’re nailed onto the cross. Tell me how to go on? How can I go, having not understood, grasped, derived: are you my son or God? That is, dead or alive? He, in turn, explained: - Dead or alive, this time, woman, it’s all the same. Son or God, I’m thine. 1971