So you see these are all one sentence that's
held together with commas and sometimes semicolons.
And I think the writer just reached the end of each line
and kept on going without a carriage returns.
So that makes the lines that make up these sentences very,
very long.
And this is poem W.
"In the very essence of poetry, there is something indecent.
Czeslaw Milosz translated by Czeslaw Milosz
and Lillian Vallee.
And what if I change the rhythm?
Can can decimated by a dog days blaze,
so symbolic it smells old like a dead man's clothes,
fear entranced by its invading morning, gang of thugs freshly
created.
Spear point languidly de-listing with a tacit workaday law.
Hodgepodge features of water and skin.
Ankle, elbow, calf.
And down below, the dogs of a cultured hell
pulling off pieces, mind the wrist,
the thigh, light from all of them, barking from 10 to 12,
biting their own shadows.
They try to mimic the origins of a single legendary hatred.
Brother and other, my first day was
itching to swamp the light it came from when it sounded
like a parade of happy children at recess, roaring
its blind, blue measure between swing and summit,
gouging an eye on steel, watching me.
I didn't make that animal.
I gave light, not legs, tentative,
dancing the distance from house to house.
I didn't do it.
My lies had time enough to expand,
invented their own Great Wall, neighboring nation,
bastard currency, even a different snow,
fragmented, barely white, their own no man's land.
Yesterday, I almost lost my way.
Correct me if I'm wrong, brother.
How many steps turns heel taps can can flaring?
I pace my house as if it were yours.
You have touched me with the music
in a corner of your voice.
Behind me it goes.
Not a melody, today's life, Tuesdays,
rings and is consoled by the smallest conceited space.
Under tables, under chairs, a different dust,
a smarter sound.
Absolved dog, holy water dog, tooth in a slice of sun.
I saw so much here.
If I change, I'll be one too many.
One more stone on the pile of people.