V.
A bit of peace is enough to reveal
the anguish deep in the heart,
limpid, like the sea-bottom
on a sunstruck day. Recognize,
without testing it, the evil
there, in your bed, your chest, your thighs
and foresaken feet, like those on
a crucifix-or like Noah
drunk and dreaming, innocently ignorant
of the exuberance of his sons, who
strong and pure amuse themselves over him …
the day by now is upon you,
in the room like a sleeping lion.
In what streets does the heart
find itself fulfilled, perfect even in this
tangle of beatitude and sorrow?
A bit of peace . . . then war, or God
is wakened in you. No sooner are passions
soothed, no sooner is the fresh wound
closed, than already you’re squandering
your soul that had seemed all spent,
in gestures of dreaming that come
to nothing … Here, if kindled
to hope is that old lion
Khrushchev, reeking of vodka,
swearing at the world by his offended Russia
here’s where you understand it’s only dreaming.
In the relief of August every passion
of yours seems enflamed, every
one of your private torments,
all of your innocent shame
for not being at–or sensing
the point where the world’s renewed.
Indeed, that new gust of wind
drives you back, where
every wind dies: and there, tumor
that reproduces itself, again you find
the old crucible of love,
the senses, the terror, the joy.
And right in that drowsiness
is the light … in that oblivion
of the infant, of the beastly or innocent lecher
is the purity … the most heroic
frenzies in that escape, the most exalted
sensation in that common human act
consummated in a morning dream.
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