Thursday, October 24, 2024


PAOL KEINEG
"D"

Down from the web in the thorns glides a spider
with fur the color of weeds. Here I am. Desire
to please to which one adds desire to die. All
that comes from above makes things obscure.
All that, obscure, is tied up in a motion which
wrenches the heart. To take it is to pervert
it. This is why the entire poem is for another
day. I have not taken hold: the wild broom
flames near the telephone booth, a woman
talks crushing the receiver against her ear,
I remain incapable of high thought. To grow
old does not snuff out the scruples.



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