Before, my thoughts up there, then
They were so cold and sober:
‘I once signed my name across the sky, that day as I lay
upon the beach of Nice. The sky I since call mine
is what I will inhabit now, if only for a brief moment.
Without a parachute I stand
on the verge of the ever-vastest.
I happily proclaim ‘Take care!
as I catch air and air
will only touch me.’’
But I, the real I,
stood on the side, would never dare
to smear myself with paint, would rather
put on a tuxedo and white gloves, make the in-pieces-
lady-whole – a piece of art completed, under my control.
The shape of the body, its lines, its strange colours hovering
between death and life, the fires that burn the heart
hold for me no interest.
The leap off an old suburban house, a comment on the Front
Page of a mock Parisien daily France Soir.
I regret to reveal that she was not a part of my plan.
I created her death, I admit, but then I truly did not see her.
If so I would have said:
‘A little to the right,
over to the left’,
maintaining myself the one to crush.
An Olympic diver in his prime
avoiding so far falling
under the spell of that train-phenomenon dreams,
of brusque landings in the past
I was diving at last
into my birth-water.