The
Perfection
is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as
snow breath, it tamps the womb
Where the
yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of
life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood
is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means:
no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in
their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These
mannequins lean tonight
In
Naked and
bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without mind.
The snow
drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will
be opening doors and setting
Down shoes
for a polish of carbon
Into which
broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the
domesticity of these windows,
The baby
lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the
black phones on hooks
Glittering
Glittering
and digesting
Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.