We should recount something says the patriarch
while the north side’s mausoleums leak
and the dogs without instinct disappear
at midday
among the one hundred and fifty steps
that lead to the sand pits
Later the patriarch explains
that everything is a particle
of dead star
and meadows are reflections
of sky
and the horizon a lengthy and widespread
illusion of readymade phrases
All of us are animals
with good manners at the end of the day
The truth is that I am Percival
lance drawn and mane in the wind
A wet beast with protruding eyes
and a hunting satchel
in the middle of the pavement
Sometimes what happens is the waves
fling themselves on the beach without spectators
or a stage
And I see the Land from behind lace curtains
like a great rock
falling apart and without belongings
So now there’s no one left
from the climb or the descent
that can tell me if I am here
or on the other side in the desert