It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it I o tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, erproof, like a s
steering my er of wombs and ashes.
to hoarse
sobs.
t is to lie still like stones or wool.
t is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a la lily,
or kill a nun he ear.
It
to go treets h a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I dont to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretc, sh sleep,
going on doo t guts of th,
taking in and ting every day.
I dont so much misery.
I dont to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under th corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
ts w sees me coming
face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it s way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of ohe
night.
And it puso certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into als he window,
into s smell like vinegar,
and certain streets he skin.
testines
I e,
and teetten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
t ougo from serror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, h my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I hopedic
shops,
and courtyards he line:
underowels and ss from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
translated by Robert Bly