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Yves Tanguy

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Is it a weightless pistol —
your hand.

The tail of smoke
like a limitless conversation
risks blooming and death.
The head of a desert.
A blank crawls parallel to lines of combed hair.
A barometer pursued its dream
without even blinking.
A released piglet
pricked up its rose petal ears
and vanished like a star.

Everyone
waits for everyone
on an unknown
but familiar
infinite chessboard.
 
Translated from the Japanese

Source: Poetry (November 2014)
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Yves Tanguy

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