CITIES

Cities are images.
An exercise book suffices to create
the absurd life of poetry
in its first infancy:
Durer's astonishment cubed
and a pain that wistfully
fails to be itself.

Two white rats spin
at the speed of neurosis.
Having turned in the great world like in a cage
for precisely sixty days
I set on a single thought:
rats spinning.

White, hairy, minute sphere
split in two halves that leap to come together.
But where slash, puzzled smoothness and
pain were are now these tiny legs,
and in between dividing sexes
compensatory sexes.
Things sprout from us where we were
separate beings entirely, entirely separate.
Five minutes of hatred in total. Five minutes.

Cities equal getting lost in the same old street,
in that part of the world, never elsewhere.

What couldn't not matter
if the whole were given back in two words
the being pettily the same of the different?
Final day sun, what great ending
for poetry and its efforts!

In the great world like in a cage
I tune a dangerous instrument.