Print article


That night we met a man about forty years old
his eyes were two phosporescent watches and his hair had
                                along the entire length of his spinal column
                    well  we asked him what his name was
and then his clock eyes began to strike, one of them midnight
                            and the other six in the morning
and suddenly they had bandages with crisscrossed sticking
          plaster and
then I recognized him as the American actor who had died in
                     and eight-five
and was buried in the foundations of a Chinese restaurant
           in New Haven and
suddenly we understood they had spread tablecloths over the
where the bedbugs dined with knives and forks on her books
and we saw the dust rising from down below
and we saw the woman dead
with her Minoan head, and her escort dead also and we said
it’s better he died
he made love with too many women and
now we must find him a sickle that every autumn he may cut
the dry grass that grows over him
and besides there is that old matter of ours somewhere in the
          twelve hundreds:
he would suddenly open the door and ask
"What happened to that yellow dress I gave you
when will you ever wear it, may the devil take you"
my voice comes off-wing
                         but I can’t hear exactly what my answer is
it must be about that yellow dress.



(Translated by: Kimon Friar)