The Loire Delta
I have more zest than a boat pushing
the sea aside, because it pushes it evenly.
I enjoy spasmodically. As if the sun would
be put out and be born again. For this is worth
getting addicted. To be able to be dragged out,
to be whipped as a kind of Christ. But engineers
who made the paw to the bridge, the girders,
don’t remain in history. They lack spasmodicality.
If my car would be thrown from the bridge
over Loire, or at least would be finely shaken,
I’d remember it. The hand’s move is always
the first one. And the opening of your little
mouth: yours, yours, yours, is always
the first thing, no matter the age.
translated by Brian Henry