IN THE AIR OF THIS SINGLE ...
Carlos Barbarito
trans. Brian Cole
°***°
In the air of this single,
greedy season, an echo,
a shadow. Grass
against some wall,
far off. No colour
that the eye can distinguish
and an age that, far
from opening out, closes up.
Now it is not raining. One hand
feels the blade, the cold
of stone.
How
the wind blows
on closed books,
with dark covers.
How not to die the death
that is seen in the mirror
after abandoning the corpse.
Before the eye, plague
from shoulder to shoulder.
Sacred evil, an animal that talks.
It talks, because it is time,
the bare tree, and, they talk, also,
obscure matter,
the beam of light that collapses
on the ground, the No
that buries in effigy
the thigh of what no longer exists.
And, then, now,
what surfeit, what thirst,
what rust in the idea
and in the dream, what a
page printed at the edge
of the world?
...
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