Jack Spicer


a translation for Eric Weir

At ten o’clock in the morning
The young man could not remember

His heart was stuffed with dead wings
and linen flowers.

He is conscious that there is nothing left
In his mouth but one word.

When he removes his coat soft ashes
Fall from his arms.

Through the window he sees a tower
He sees a window and a tower.

His watch has run down in its case
He observes the way it was looking at him.

He sees his shadow stretched
Upon a white silk cushion.

And the stiff geometric youngster
Shatters the mirror with an ax.

The mirror submerges everything
In a great spurt of shadow.