It so happens I am sick of being a man.

    And it  I o tailorshops and movie

    houses

    dried up, erproof, like a s

    steering my er of wombs and ashes.

    to hoarse

    sobs.

    t is to lie still like stones or wool.

    t is to see no more stores, no gardens,

    no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

    It so  I am sick of my feet and my nails

    and my hair and my shadow.

    It so happens I am sick of being a man.

    Still it would be marvelous

    to terrify a la lily,

    or kill a nun he ear.

    It

    to go treets h a green knife

    letting out yells until I died of the cold.

    I dont  to go on being a root in the dark,

    insecure, stretc, sh sleep,

    going on doo t guts of th,

    taking in and ting every day.

    I dont  so much misery.

    I dont  to go on as a root and a tomb,

    alone under th corpses,

    half frozen, dying of grief.

    ts w sees me coming

    face, blazes up like gasoline,

    and it s way like a wounded wheel,

    and leaves tracks full of ohe

    night.

    And it puso certain corners, into some moist

    houses,

    into als he window,

    into s smell like vinegar,

    and certain streets he skin.

    testines

    I e,

    and teetten in a coffeepot,

    there are mirrors

    t ougo  from serror,

    there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical

    cords.

    I stroll along serenely, h my eyes, my shoes,

    my rage, forgetting everything,

    I hopedic

    shops,

    and courtyards he line:

    underowels and ss from which slow

    dirty tears are falling.

    translated by Robert Bly