Dreams about Arms

(via onetinyhand.com)

"XLVII

CILIATED REEF WHERE I WAS BORN
according to the chronicles and folders
with familiar lips illustrated
in second grace.

Ciliated archipelago, you lose your island to the depths,
         to the bottom, my archipelago!
You put up with the calls
of the highway, the way they try us out
and we don't give in for anything.

Noticing the closed eyelids,
unfeathered little grownups, devouring blue bonbons,
old rats start cackling.
Their eyelids closed, as if, when we're born
always wasn't time yet.

The altar goes, the candle so
nothing happens to my mother,
and for me who'll be with the years, if God
wanted, Bishop, Pope, Saint, or perhaps
just a headache of sacred columns.

And those tiny hands that boat themselves
grasping something floating,
not caring to hold on.
And it's 1 already."

--from David Smith's translation of Trilce (1973)