Читать книгу Wolf Centos - Simone Muench - Страница 8

I transformed into this thing, this beautiful

black howl: wolves & storms

of white trigonometries

& along my veins sailor’s flutes are singing.

Body caught by knowing,

like an inflamed throat, the immense

perception of knees.

This is the weapon: knowledge

with its hundred corridors,

its dark orange trees.

I stop at the edge of my breath,

as if beside a door,

nobody comes, nobody weeps.

How beautiful: indifference at midnight,

light falling mute over the blue trucks.

& when the time comes to die there will be

only this syllable, this tongue

that can no longer pass beyond its husk.