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The Verb To Be

I know the general outline of despair.
 
Despair has no wings, it doesn’t necessarily sit at a cleared table in the evening on a terrace by the sea.
 
It’s despair and not the return of a quantity of insignificant facts like seeds that leave one furrow for another at nightfall.
 
It’s not the moss that forms on a rock or the foam that rocks in a glass.
 
It’s a boat riddled with snow, if you will, like birds that fall and their blood doesn’t have the slightest thickness.
 
I know the general outline of despair. A very small shape, defined by jewels worn in the hair.
 
That’s despair.
 
A pearl necklace for which no clasp can be found and whose existence can’t even hang by a thread. That’s despair for you.
 
Let’s not go into the rest.
 
Once we begin to despair we don’t stop.
 
I myself despair of the lampshade around four o’clock, I despair of the fan towards midnight, I despair of the cigarette smoked by men on death row.
 
I know the general outline of despair.
 
Despair has no heart, my hand always touches breathless despair, the despair whose mirrors never tell us if it’s dead.
 
I live on that despair which enchants me.
 
I love that blue fly which hovers in the sky at the hour when the stars hum.
 
I know the general outline of the despair with long slender surprises, the despair of pride, the despair of anger.
 
I get up every day like everyone else and I stretch my arms against a floral wallpaper. I don’t remember anything and it’s always in despair that I discover the beautiful uprooted trees of night.
 
The air in the room is as beautiful as drumsticks.
 
What weathery weather.
 
I know the general outline of despair.
 
It’s like the curtain’s wind that holds out a helping hand.
 
Can you imagine such a despair? Fire! Ah they’re on their way … Help! Here they come falling down the stairs …
 
And the ads in the newspaper, and the illuminated signs along the canal.
 
Sandpile, beat it, you dirty sandpile! In its general outline despair has no importance.
 
It’s a squad of trees that will eventually make a forest, it’s a squad of stars that will eventually make one less day, it’s a squad of one­-less-­days that will eventually make up my life.
 

Woman and bird

The cat dreams and purrs inside of the brown violin.
 
He examines the depths of the ebony and licks up diagonally from afar all of the bright mahogany.
 
It is the hour when the sphinx of the madder plant loosens by thousands his trunk's grasp round the fountain of Vaucluse and when the woman is nothing more than a chalice overflowing with vowels in association with the inimitable magnolia of the night.