The color of old clothes. Shadowed July,

and just-harvested August. And one

coat of water that onto the resinous

pine of boredom grafted evil fruit.

Now that you have dropped anchor, dark clothing,

you return dampened with a sumptuous fragrance

in time, in abbreviation … And I have sung

the inclined feast that overturned.

But, have you no power, Lord, against death,

against the limit, against that which ends?

Ay! wound the color of old clothes,

how it slightly opens and smells of burnt honey!

Oh exalted unity! Oh that which is one for all!

Love against space and against time!

A single heartbeat;

a single rhythm: God!

And as the boundaries in surly irreducible

disdain shrug their shoulders,

there is a pouring forth of serpents

onto the virgin plenitude of 1.

A crease, a shade!