A Temp (or airy occupant)
à Francis Ponge
Lodging lightly in air we inhabit a high house
carved and partitioned by light and space;
its clarity upon occasion obliterates the years
as we soar through ensuing open doors of sky.
Trees are beneath us, and grass further off:
a morning green world glitters before expiring
as night arrives; those mountains
breathing deeply in the distance
seem slight as a stray glance passes beyond them.
This home of light is built above a void,
shimmering; be quick now, take possession
of this resonant dwelling
before it darkens too soon below layers of dust
breaking up in a shower of blood.
Now, helpmeet or lover, transfer this tenant underground;
your love once opened two doors for him yet here
his eyes are closed, as we found him in the courtyard:
help him now to sink into a house of damp root.