No work pulled tight, silent, and monotonous as endlessly sculpted sea – but

outbursts concessions to earth’s effervescence – opening past worry and

torment a stridency of beaches for the heart – bursts always dislocated,

always reiterated, and beyond consummation – not works but the matter

itself where a work makes its way – all bound up in some project about to

cast them away – first cries, naïve murmurs, weary forms – witnesses,

though awkward, of this project – which, as their imperfections must meet

perfectly cohere – here with the power to convince that we must stop at the

uncertain – things that tremble, waver, and ceaselessly become – like a land

in the grip of devastation – sparse.

– Edouard Glissant. from Riveted Blood

translated by Betsy Wing

_

translated by Jeff Humphries:

rivetedblood

 

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