- The Tailor’s Requiem, and: Harvesting, and: Ode, of My Country
The Tailor’s Requiem
This man, on the warp unravels the threads that would need the bias to shape the fabric (then) they call for the cutter to run his shears down the path traced by the chalk (that) is covered over: the night is cold; it has come.
Ah, he stretches out the palm of his right hand (ah) the speck of cotton, it has a burr: scattering, the fabrics (let all be covered).
His hand (everyone’s) on his head (at) the crown the round shape of skullcaps, blessing (the fabric): the tailor unravels the threads that at God’s direction will be shaped into skullcaps, the crowned flesh of the scalp stays standing smooth (skin) (ah, it’s all sores, now) of beasts of burden, His works: like a horse blanket (fleur-de-lis, black background) the cloth covers the lower flesh of the four beasts, dressed up. [End Page 49]
Plumes, tanned saddle of beasts: useful (clothed) animals.
The tailor created (domes) curved smooth (they are) the rump of horses; perfect, hole punch: he’s a craftsman our flawless tailor who protects the fig trees with netting spreads sendal on flowering tobacco in the fields (restores) flesh on the redundant bones of his dead: that he has stepped into the enraged center of clusters of bumblebees who spin and spin (flesh); blind scholars of God, in their cells.
For me, he came: I was afraid it would be my father, once again: and raised my hand to my head (unaware) a reflex movement.
This one, is different (by profession, the same): his name is tailor (harp) (David) (frizzy beard) (strong calves) (a hard beehive, his heart): nothing to do with rapid progeny of edible bread his (different) crumb; how, where do I gather words the sound of a tiny fleck of words the strand (manna) of words to say (now) [End Page 50] this tailor is in the damp depths of a backroom of a street we can call Villegas (Delancey) Gorojovaia street (he is) in the lepidoptera depths the damp depths of (sacred, animal) flesh: leap (leap) toward me.
I bow, as I germinate to gather the cotyledons with which the tailor shaped the (filigreed) geometric borders at the edges of, his cloth: I cover myself.
My hand, to my head: in the left lapel some grass (it will flower, pangola): here beasts will come to graze where my pauper’s suit was (my white clothes): they’re not enough for me to speak of God the old seven- branched candelabra the frieze of repeated blue on white (linen) background of a stole: I lift, this book of psalms so he may know me.
In the end, I am nobody: the tailor’s son.
He died, hired horses pulled the carriage in which they transported his perfect carrion with striped pants long black (shirt) of (the craftsman) tailor: led from the depths of a backroom to his conclave of (crumbling) earth: it rained, in the north in the south all [End Page 51] night it was cold the fig tree suddenly withered, in the back yard: a birch tree in spring, shed its leaves; in the place we will return to, in the middle of the tropics, a ceiba tree died, covered in frost.
It doesn’t matter is of (no) interest: the tree’s seedpods, fell: threads of fabrics disintegrated like dust, all chalk.
Nothing: the constructor is different. My father is one more of his offshoots who took the profession of tailor everyday (bumblebee): he concocted (and) concocted complete fabrics of living myopia seated one foot on a footstool the sharp edge of his pupil piercing the flesh (lifting) a thread to the sky (poor) bumblebee: he dressed me dressed (countries): (febrile) at the end he shared out, his threads; (offshoots splices of linen blue (fields), of cotton: (spliced) we have remained hand in hand both watching it snow (here) outside (hand in hand) watching threads on a slant snow in the sky (you, cashmere suit so you look like a nobleman despite the...