Today the salt is shaped like its breast
and dances dances
It’ll dance all day and the night won’t stop it
it’ll dance all night and the stones waking up won’t stop it
it’ll dance like this until the frieze’s horses die
as glaciers and snow die
yet when the night looks at me sweetly as a heart
the frieze’s horses will feel their bones inflating
the sails will sweep them away down doubtful roads
where the sacred reptiles’ brains are crawling
The one whose hand reaches for the charcoal hat-rack
will sigh as the frieze’s horses pass by
And meantime they’ll pass by
They’ll pass by for such a long time their memory will be lost
like a dog in the sea
like a finger in a glove
like an ear in a seashell
etc and a thousand times etc
because etc’s the night of the one-eyed which stretches out like a raincoat
and comes back to smack their faces
It’s true that their faces died when they lost their eye
and that for them the night’s dead because it’s stretched out
But the day with its tulip fingers
the day whose sighs vanish into the spider’s cellars
the day whose glances fall like fruit
the day for them is nothing more than a toy boat
lonely in the bathtub
and in spite of everything they do the bathtub will never have calves’ ears
the bathtub will never crack walnuts at noon
the bathtub will never kill a cat
the bathtub will never make anyone a widow
because the bathtub’s dead
the bathtub’s dead like bread that has never risen
bread that’s condemned to die before being bread
like water that’s condemned to die before being water