the hour brother

nothing rises nothing sinks no side-to-side

he gets up

nothing stirs nor being nor nonbeing nor idea nor

manacled prisoner nor tramway

he hears naught but himself

understands naught but chairs stone chill water—knows

even through solid matter

having no use for eyes he rolls them in the street

last flare of blood in the dark

last salute

he rips out his tongue—flame transpierced by a star

tranquilized

autumn dead as a red palm leaf

and reabsorbs what he’d denied and dissolute projects

him

into t’other hemisphere second season of existence

like nails and hair growing and coming back

Tristan Tzara