half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming

with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors

that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

my rage, forgetting everything,

I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

dirty tears are falling.

Translated by Robert Bly

ARTE POETICA.

Entre sombra y es.p.a.cio, entre guarniciones y doncellas,

dotado de corazn singular y suenos funestos,

precipitadamente plido, marchito en la frente

y con luto de viudo furioso por cada da de mi vida,

ay, para cada agua invisible que bebo sonolientamente

y de todo sonido que acojo temblando,

tengo la misma sed ausente y la misma fiebre fra

un odo que nace, una angustia indirecta,

como si llegaran ladrones o fantasmas,

y en una cscara de extensin fija y profunda,