Squattings

Squattings

Very late,
when he feels his stomach churn,

Brother Milotus, one eye on the skylight whence the sun,

bright as a scoured stewpan, darts a megrim at him

and dizzies his sight, moves his priest’s belly under the sheets.

He struggles beneath the grey blanket and gets out,

his knees to his trebling belly, flustered like an old man

who has swallowed a pinch of snuff,

because he has to tuck up his nightshirt in armfuls

round his waist with one hand

grasping the handle of a white chamberpot!

Now he is squatting, chilly, his toes curled up,

his teeth chattering in the bright sunshine

which dubs the yellow of cake upon the paper panes;

and the old fellow’s nose, its crimson catching fire,

snuffles in the rays like a polypary of flesh.

The old fellow simmers at the fire, his arms twisted,

his blubber lips on his belly:

he feels his thighs slipping into the fire,

and his breeches scorching, and his pipe going out;

something resembling a bird stirs a little in his serene belly

which is like a mountain of tripe!

Round about him sleeps a jumble of stunned furniture

among tatters of filth, lying on soiled bellies;

stools cower like weird toads in dark corners:

cupboards have maws like choirmasters,

yawning with a sleepiness which is full of revolting appetites.

The sickening heat stuffs the narrow room;

the old fellow’s head is crammed with rags:

he listens to the hairs growing in his moist away,

shaking his rickety stool..

And in the evening, in rays of moonlight

which leaves dribbles of light

on the contours of his buttocks,

a shadow with details squats

against a background of snow-coloured pink like a hollyhock

Fantastic, a nose follows Venus in the deep sky.