Vertigo

This dizziness effaces: I am here
But keeping silent, keeping to myself.
Where is the face I came out of? What face?
“Monstrosity of golden threads, that textik
Intertwine in grace…” Sounds without meaning
Or a means, and mean. Nothing is being said.
Think of the face as a cliff, inscribed
With its inscription. I write
That the face writes itself. I am my face
As others perceive it facing me,
But I face them, in the end,
Taking, always taking and keeping for myself,
Keeping under key (constructions à cléf
Descending and mounting in trebles and bass
Whose mountainous piles again,
Like shoveling spears, bring the sky down)
How much of the world I have hidden
In my labyrinth. And who hides me?