CLOUDY OR CLEAR Poem by Israel Pincas

1
I asked for something cold, honed down,
Burnished like nickel,

A bed-rail, on which a patient
Cools his forehead;

Perhaps a cube. A plank
Square and hardened,

Uncompromised,
Brother to madness, to silence.

A silence accrues to a buzz.
A buzzing which is speech:

A kind of largo for cellos
Or high voltage,

Like that of the generator relegated
To the edge of the lot,

Between the bushes, the barrels
And beside the stains of mazut and of oil.

2
One morning I'll wake up and learn
That I was: a rifle butt, a chisel's handle,

A square piece of wood, rigid,
a cube.

It'll be very hot. Maybe cold. Cloudy
Or clear. A disinterested glance will reveal:

A scorched wall, or scaffolding; a frame,
Or something which can only bring to mind a frame

Of a house, a large storeroom for spare parts, or a garage,
Perhaps a dismantled hotel; a gas station

And a sign, part of a sign,
A traffic light for the young who lap distances.