Work and more work
to give birth to a father
in my loneliness as a decaying
plough that ploughs nothing
because like a train in need of tracks
the furrows precede my ploughing.
I’m a circular son. Like a sign
of the Zodiac I’m a circular son, what I do
needs what I’m moving in
which is where I move
what I do and how can I do it
if I no longer have what to move in? What I do
is what made me.
I am train, plough and turn table
with no records. Unparalleled I spread
in circles a rotund sadness
from the incubation of a vertiginous vortex
which I help to solidify: once again the solid
solitude: the first image of the train is easy:
it urges compassion. And the circular oxen are
heavy made dizzy by my plough,
and the turning table turns in vain
without records. How heavy can
dizzy oxen be? Like being a father
when you are the son?