the day rises in golden fury
and before it
antennae plot revolutions
with their antennae's mind

to live and to die is not much -
what's left is to await cancer in the ligaments
in the time of the time that's left

this music of stone:
this i
that inhabits a body
is less than body

and refuses to be happy in this city
and grows old without having ever been young

even if the antennae sustain insect elegance
against the afternoon

metallic cluster
on filthy slabs

Translation: Ana Hudson