Free Breathturn into Timestead by Paul Celan

of my hands:
    your name comforted
    by hands.
    When I knead the lump
    of air, our nourishment,
    it is leavened by the
    letters’ shimmer from
    the lunatic-open
    pore.
    Â 
----
    Â 
    T HE HOURGLASS , deep
    in paeony shadow, buried:
    When Thinking comes down
    the Pentecost-lane, finally,
    it inherits that empire,
    where you, mired, test the wind.
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    HARBOR
    Sorehealed: where—,
    when you were like me, criss-
    and crossdreamt by
    schnappsbottlenecks at the
    whore table
    â€”cast
    my happiness aright, Seahair,
    heap up the wave, that carries me, Blackcurse,
    break your way
    through the hottest womb,
    Icesorrowpen—,
    where-
    to
    didn’t you come to lie with me, even
    on the benches
    at Mother Clausen’s, yes, she
    knows, how often I sang all
    the way up into your throat, hey-diddle-doo,
    like the bilberryblue
    alder of homeland with all its leaves,
    hey-doodle-dee,
    you, like the
    astral-flute from
    beyond the worldridge—there too
    we swam, nakednudes, swam,
    the abyssverse on
    the fire-red forehead—unconsumed by
    fire the deep-
    inside flooding gold
    dug its paths upward—,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â here,
    with eyelashed sails,
    remembrance too drove past, slowly
    the conflagration jumped over, cut
    off, you,
    cut off on
    the two blue-
    black memory-
    barges,
    but driven on now also
    by the thousand-
    arm, with which I held you,
    they cruise, past starthrow-dives,
    our still drunk, still drinking
    byworldly mouths—I name only them—,
    till over there at the timegreen clocktower
    the net-, the numberskin soundlessly
    peels off—a delusion-dock,
    swimming, before it,
    off-world-white the
    letters of the
    tower cranes write
    an unname, along which
    she clambers up, to the deathjump, the
    cat, the trolley, life,
    which the sense-
    greedy sentences dredge up, after midnight,
    at which
    neptunic sin throws its corn-
    schnapps-colored towrope,
    between
    twelve-
    toned lovesoundbuoys
    â€”draw well winch back then, with you
    it sings in the no-longer-
    inland choir—
    the beaconlightships come dancing,
    from afar, from Odessa,
    the loadline,
    which sinks with us, true to our burden,
    owlglasses all this
    downward, upward, and why not? sorehealed, where—,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  when—
    hither and past and hither.
    Â 
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    Â 

III
    B LACK ,
    like the memory-wound,
    the eyes dig toward you
    in the by heart-teeth light-
    bitten crownland,
    that remains our bed:
    through this shaft you have to come—
    you come.
    In seed-
    sense
    the sea stars you out, innermost, forever.
    The namegiving has an end,
    over you I cast my lot.
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    Â 
    A NVILHEADEDNESS , at
    palfrey pace,
    alongside us, of the double
    slowly streaming redtrack.
    Silvery:
    Hoofsayings, lullaby-
    neighing—dream-
    hurdle and -weir—: no one
    shall go farther, nothing.
    You under me, centaurishly
    rearing,
    I empty into our across-
    roaring shadow.
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    Â 
    L ANDSCAPE with urnbeings.
    Conversations
    from smokemouth to smokemouth.
    They eat:
    the bedlamite’s truffle, a piece
    unburied poetry,
    found tongue and tooth.
    A tear rolls back into its eye.
    The left, orphaned
    half of the pilgrim-
    mussel—they gave it to you,
    then they bound you—
    listening it illuminates the space:
    the clinker game against death
    can begin.
    Â 
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    Â 
    T HE JUGGLERDRUM ,
    from my heartpenny loud.
    The rungs of the ladder, up
    which Ulysses, my monkey, clambers toward Ithaca,
    rue de Longchamp, one hour
    after the spilled wine:
    add