Burning， he walks in the stream of flickering¹ letters， clarinets，

    machines throbbing² quicker than the heart， lopped-off heads， silk

    canvases， and he stops under the sky

    and raises toward it his joined clenched³ fists.

    Believers fall on their bellies⁴， they suppose it is a monstrance that

    shines，

    but those are knuckles⁵， sharp knuckles shine that way， my friends.

    He cuts the glowing， yellow buildings in two， breaks the walls into

    motley halves；

    pensive⁶， he looks at the honey seeping⁷ from those huge honeycombs：

    throbs⁸ of pianos， children's cries， the thud of a head banging against

    the floor.

    This is the only landscape able to make him feel.

    He wonders at his brother's skull⁹ shaped like an egg，

    every day he shoves back his black hair from his brow，

    then one day he plants a big load of dynamite¹⁰

    and is surprised that afterward¹¹ everything spouts¹² up in the explosion.

    Agape， he observes the clouds and what is hanging in them：

    globes， penal¹³ codes， dead cats floating on their backs， locomotives.

    They turn in the skeins of white clouds like trash in a puddle¹⁴.

    While below on the earth a banner， the color of a romantic rose，

    flutters，

    and a long row of military trains crawls on the weed-covered tracks.

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