A BEACH WITHOUT END
                                                to Valentina Flamerich Ossott
                                                for the poems she wants to write.

Yes, it should be written like that, elevated, devout,
almost absolute
if possible, a great poem
But there are interruptions, house noises
                                                      a husband's breathing. The cat.

And it would contain above all the sea
            the rough sea, tall, curling
            beating beach and coast, ravenous
            and the burning, the crabs, always changing their minds.
            Guilt.    What has been spoilt, broken things.
That great poem which would encompass it all.
Winds.      Melancholy.               The undertow.
Long nights.     A list of states.
            Fevers.             Ardors.
And there would be looks that intercept words to stop them.
                        Staring eyes, almost silent, self-contained.
It would speak about lying
                        almost unsustainable lying, on the level.
It would articulate the impossible, installed in the heart's core
                as hope.
The poem could be like a flowing of waters
                        around an improbable center.
Trees would be there, lovers, fountains,
God, breathing, blood, books, dolls,
the stars.

It would have to be written like that, embracing a totality
                        which is erased in death
                        as if everything vanished and was created
                        eternally.
It would have to show that passion pulses in it
                                seething blood, an effervescence.

A fire poem
pride of some god
pride of a household idol, of a crack
alert to the tension of warmth.

If it could, if it could be written
                        the innumerable poem
                        the only poem, the whole
                        taut, vibrant
the poem pierced by gravity and divinity
                        furrowed by horror.                                                    

But the cat requires our attention
                                         the kitchen calls
an application distracts.

It would also be crisscrossed by streets, men
                                fights, separations
and "the birds that speak to us in Greek" when we go mad from so much not understanding.
And therefore we would take a jump into infinity. And
therefore, the poem.
                               If it came.
And if it comes, it comes with the joy of seeing
the happiness of counting all the numbers in the universe
                               the workings, the displays
                               the rarities, the individualities
if it came
                               totality would flood my soul.
                               The absolute invade it.
                               A god would be made in us.

Now I am on a beach without end.     I am star and moss.
                       
                            Rough wave.
The poem has come from my lack, from my poverty.