Poet for the hell of it, never so well said
-clear and Catalan: poet to disturb-,
poet for the surly delight of truth
more than for the gloss of whatever beauty,
so as to turn no into yes
as an obscure conjurer
who claims to arouse the public -stark mad!-
by pulling positivity, out of the top of his head,
from a top hat,
starched with fifth and with a fraying brim.

In short -not that it matters-, in a cloud of chaff
-which, according to the sweet companion,
must come from the opposite pavement-,
if it is what it is, when it is, it is hardly any more
than a concrete efficiency of language
-always relative, of course, it goes without saying-
which may compensate, briefly at least,
for the detours and our own detours,
while fiddling with a pot holder
as inside, our blood seethes
and we are short of breath.

Translated by Estelle Henry-Bossonney