from the lowlands, low

 

under the lands,
nether regions,
far border

of a
rock-horned county

—of another, too, of a
warmaker be-
headed with La-
moral in the plaza (and of another,
beyond quilicura; quasi flanders
quasi extremadura)—

at cape horn, watchful, to bring
forth that which bears no name — at tierra
del fuego, in sigh-,
yo destruyo la rosa qui silba, quasi.

you who now lower up to the top
not without certain fatigue,
come to star-deck yourself, come blaze up    with me    with-

out air.

 

 

[ next ]

 

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 "I'll destroy the rose that whistles" is Neruda. The rose is always Paul Celan's. No one's. No  wonder I'm tired and without air. And still getting up. The south of Chile and its conquerors,  querer, error, what is "beyond" each of us: there's scarcely room for a rose. The sky's too  big; its oxygen feeds fires. Without air, then, we won't burn out. Just blaze up, briefly.

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