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,

        noods, no spectacles, no elevators.

        It so    I am siy 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 uh corpses,

        half frozen, dying of grief.

        ts w sees me ing

        face, blazes up like gasoline,

        and it s way like a wounded wheel,

        and leaves tracks full of ohe

        night.

        And it puso certain ers, into some moist

        houses,

        into als he window,

        into s smell like vinegar,

        aain streets he skin.

        testines

        I e,

        aen 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, fetting everything,

        I hopedic

        shops,

        and courtyards he line:

        underowels and ss from which slow

        dirty tears are falling.

        translated by Robert Bly
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