Twelve knots are losing patience around the eyebrows
of the year to come. No one knows if he will live
until December 31. It’s barely August.
But the brown light of March feels like
intensely running late. October
better get a grip. Wednesday was drowned
in the scrapings of December, but
it’s rumba Saturday with Brazilian music.
When will it begin to happen,
the long-awaited, incessant loosening of knots?
Somebody or other is asking himself while
time goes by, conflagration and answer
lighting up faces with burning splendor.