human tended by a human.
Human takes a deposition
about the human, before a human.
A human was not born so will not die.
He is eternal and forever
because he takes all depositions
about that which exists.
A human has never existed and will never exist
because nonexistence is its own witness.
And still, a human, human, human
is one who does not believe
who did not believe
who we did not believe
would ever learn to die.
The One Who Eats Dragonflies
I eat dragonflies because theyâre green
with black eyes,
because they have two sets of wings,
transparent wings,
because they fly without making noise,
because I donât know who made them
or why,
because they are beautiful and gentle,
because I donât know why theyâre beautiful and gentle,
because they donât talk and because
Iâm not completely sure thatâs true.
I eat dragonflies because I donât like
the taste,
because they are noxious and
donât sit well.
I eat dragonflies because I donât understand them,
I eat them because I live at the same time they do,
I eat them because once I tried to eat myself,
my hands first,
and they were infinitely more disgusting,
I eat them because I tried
to eat my tongue,
my own fleshy tongue,
and I was terrified when I saw
it spit out words.
They were green with black eyes,
and far from me, and hungry.
Who Am I? What Is My Place in the Cosmos?
Without me, it is impossible â proof that I am.
Without me, it was impossible;
proof: I pulled myself out of myself,
that is, from that me that was.
I am he without whom it is impossible.
I am he without whom it was impossible.
I am he who gave a deposition
on Godâs existence.
I am he who gave a deposition
on Godâs nonexistence, because
I made God visible.
I am made by God, because
I made God.
I am neither good nor bad,
I just am.
I am the word âam.â
I am the ear that hears âam.â
I am the spirit that understands âam.â
I am the absurd body of âamâ
and its letters.
I am the place where âamâ exists
and the bed where it sleeps.
Atavistic Melancholy
Many of them, for various reasons
all living together below the floor,
mixed together, becoming enemies
of death,
some dying of old age
or simply
killing themselves.
From time to time, someone
rents a reason.
I myself lived inside a reason
of this kind, but after a while
I wandered off.
There were so many. From time to time,
in the common grave where they died
they left bones behind, much more beautiful
than I could have imagined.
Now I have climbed up. Sometimes I am
able to think even at the level of the moon.
And still I long, like I canât take any more,
to throw myself into the chimney, come out through the fireplace,
and lie spread over the floor for hours on end
with my ear pressed to the joists.
Idols of the Grass
Occasionally, instead of grassblades
there are idols, green and thin.
Horses circumambulate in wonder
and swarms of ants . . .
They glisten at night like blades
threatening the stars and moon.
The horses run on gravel to the river.
No more ants are seen, not one.
Grassblades for an unborn horse
Only in the future will it eat them.
I have seen them, yes, I have,
but I surrendered before them.
Fruits Before Being Eaten
I prepare for a great tree,
the one that is nothing but a smell,
I turn the nostrils of dusky
fruits toward the hunted vegetable.
I strip off my bark and rings
down to my rising osmotic sap.
Monday is an apple, Tuesday a pear, and Wednesday
a bitter grape.
Autumn falls. A kind of yellow
arrives, and rust. The tree
drops its hours. Seconds faint
within clusters of grapes.
Letâs have a drink, not wine, but a sour,
early fermentation, letâs bind the mouths
of hunting dogs with raffia, so they
will take the zenith in their snouts.
One nostril stuck beside the next
wedded like the tubes of a pan-flute
and
Human takes a deposition
about the human, before a human.
A human was not born so will not die.
He is eternal and forever
because he takes all depositions
about that which exists.
A human has never existed and will never exist
because nonexistence is its own witness.
And still, a human, human, human
is one who does not believe
who did not believe
who we did not believe
would ever learn to die.
The One Who Eats Dragonflies
I eat dragonflies because theyâre green
with black eyes,
because they have two sets of wings,
transparent wings,
because they fly without making noise,
because I donât know who made them
or why,
because they are beautiful and gentle,
because I donât know why theyâre beautiful and gentle,
because they donât talk and because
Iâm not completely sure thatâs true.
I eat dragonflies because I donât like
the taste,
because they are noxious and
donât sit well.
I eat dragonflies because I donât understand them,
I eat them because I live at the same time they do,
I eat them because once I tried to eat myself,
my hands first,
and they were infinitely more disgusting,
I eat them because I tried
to eat my tongue,
my own fleshy tongue,
and I was terrified when I saw
it spit out words.
They were green with black eyes,
and far from me, and hungry.
Who Am I? What Is My Place in the Cosmos?
Without me, it is impossible â proof that I am.
Without me, it was impossible;
proof: I pulled myself out of myself,
that is, from that me that was.
I am he without whom it is impossible.
I am he without whom it was impossible.
I am he who gave a deposition
on Godâs existence.
I am he who gave a deposition
on Godâs nonexistence, because
I made God visible.
I am made by God, because
I made God.
I am neither good nor bad,
I just am.
I am the word âam.â
I am the ear that hears âam.â
I am the spirit that understands âam.â
I am the absurd body of âamâ
and its letters.
I am the place where âamâ exists
and the bed where it sleeps.
Atavistic Melancholy
Many of them, for various reasons
all living together below the floor,
mixed together, becoming enemies
of death,
some dying of old age
or simply
killing themselves.
From time to time, someone
rents a reason.
I myself lived inside a reason
of this kind, but after a while
I wandered off.
There were so many. From time to time,
in the common grave where they died
they left bones behind, much more beautiful
than I could have imagined.
Now I have climbed up. Sometimes I am
able to think even at the level of the moon.
And still I long, like I canât take any more,
to throw myself into the chimney, come out through the fireplace,
and lie spread over the floor for hours on end
with my ear pressed to the joists.
Idols of the Grass
Occasionally, instead of grassblades
there are idols, green and thin.
Horses circumambulate in wonder
and swarms of ants . . .
They glisten at night like blades
threatening the stars and moon.
The horses run on gravel to the river.
No more ants are seen, not one.
Grassblades for an unborn horse
Only in the future will it eat them.
I have seen them, yes, I have,
but I surrendered before them.
Fruits Before Being Eaten
I prepare for a great tree,
the one that is nothing but a smell,
I turn the nostrils of dusky
fruits toward the hunted vegetable.
I strip off my bark and rings
down to my rising osmotic sap.
Monday is an apple, Tuesday a pear, and Wednesday
a bitter grape.
Autumn falls. A kind of yellow
arrives, and rust. The tree
drops its hours. Seconds faint
within clusters of grapes.
Letâs have a drink, not wine, but a sour,
early fermentation, letâs bind the mouths
of hunting dogs with raffia, so they
will take the zenith in their snouts.
One nostril stuck beside the next
wedded like the tubes of a pan-flute
and
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