Psalm

Death is the demand: they are upright and their voices say,
“Absolve, absolve, absolve…”, these holy ones;
I would like to think the angels are as old as stones.

Throw away the wrapper. (The prince found me naked. – Then burn
The garment.) There is no room for rubbish, is there?

Here is my prescription: drive a needle through the eyes, rip out
The tongue and pierce the membrane of the ears, tape up the nose,
And numb the flesh. Where nothing can be, nothing will. The mind
Might then become a number or a cube, or lose itself in unity with time…