HOLY WEEK - Monday
It is that week again in which men
rake up their heavenly father, miss their mothers,
feel how immortality late at night
starts pissing on their thoughts.
It is that week again in which humanity
folds its hands, chews daintily on silence
and on Sunday tosses in the sheets
It will last seven days, the lack of God
and his tantrums, while I think only of her,
of the umpteenth beginning I shall weave
into her braids, the buttocks for which I
will risk my second youth.
It is that week again in which she
crackles in my bushes.
From Night and Navel (2017); translated by Paul Vincent