[or le goût des choses]


     for Verónica Ch.

     Kindness glides about my house.
     Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
     The blue and red jewels of her   
     rings smoke
     In the windows, the mirrors
     Are filling with smiles.

     What is so real as the cry of 
     a child? […]

     Its crystals a little poultice.
     O kindness, kindness
     Sweetly picking up pieces!...

     Sylvia Plath, “Kindness”

    Girl Sitting on a Bench (1935)
    by Dorothea Lange

that little boy, flustered, sitting on the stairways of any house-maybe-mine, no lucky dawns, empty hands, tormented mouth that tongues but a hollowness of victories he never took for granted; so that hopeless boy, wild feet to reach the very cold outside, perhaps deluding himself – like a fucked-up needleworker who does not have any key to anything less stern in life – into zigzagging a mélange of absurdness and failure, and trying to puzzle over something unbecoming; so he, that little lost, whose eyes were as clumsy as pensive, shouldering such a pain made of a mixture of nothings and tos and fros, he was arrestingly looking into his nails – painted blue… his eyes, [a little fixed, a little tottery], were also – blue; his legs grew in a very unbelievable blue note either, as if he was entirely – blue… and then, when I came closer and asked whys and hows, his nails shining through everything around, [they were really visible, rather than anything else in his frail inexistence], he, that dying-away-for-something boy, he, with some glazing-over eyes, and lips that seemed to touch the asphalt [foreigner-like] scent, he just murmured, as if in secret: “I painted my nails blue to not forget the very color I have inside; my grey body is as usual what makes me wear my sunglasses, colored blue such as my nails, every single time I need to face people and respond to their quests anywhere I stroll in; I still refuse to paint myself without, never mind this whole solitude and acrimony Im stuck with… there may be something smiling to me and just saying you the lost, but you alike, you mine…


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