I live sitting down, like an angel held by a barber,
Clutching a deeply fluted mug,
Stomach and neck arched, a Briar
In my teeth, under air swollen by sails no one can touch.
Like the steamy droppings of an old columbarium,
A thousand Dreams light sweet fires inside me:
Then sometimes my sad heart’s an alburnum
Whose own ooze bloodies its deep new gold.
Then, when I’ve carefully gulped down all my Dreams,
I turn around, after thirty or forty mugs,
And collect myself to dispense with my burning need:
Sweet as the Lord of the cedar and the hyssops,
I piss up at the brown skies, very high, very far,
Permission granted by giant sunflowers.
“Oraison du soir” ● Translated from the French by Bill Zavatsky