Translated by Michael Edwards
 
FOR AN IDEA UNABLE TO TAKE SHAPE

Retreating to fact, being acting having, and never a
    complete awareness
of the lie, and among the leaves a play of systems, a solar
    portent
altered in the silent room, one pace after another in the
    dust,
and they float up, and we, placing our foot, pursue them,
    phantoms, in the room,
they float up lightly from other times, I touch them,
    looming, figures raised by the summons,
and you (who are you?) brood to no purpose: time is here,
    in my room, outside,
where the cat half-closing its eyes crumbles the last
remains of the summer wind and the oleander in the
    courtyard snows, whitely, its perfume.
...