when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows
when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf
when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause
when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.
…
This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.
Beyond Language 