I knew very little about this poem or poet when I picked the book up, and I know very little know. White space on the page does a lot of work here; there's some of the metaphysical abyss/void/ennui/absence unearned capital that plagues French intellectual life (as well as American); but there's also a very pleasing and disturbing cumulative effect.
A quick google tells me that this was originally translated into English by Cid Corman, and was translated into German by Paul Celan, so that should give you some idea of what to expect. This translation, by Norma Cole, works perfectly well, though she's held back on some of the phrases that, let's say, a contemporary American poet would not use (je l'ai entendue pleurer dans sa race becomes I found her crying in the [rather than 'her'] race). It's hard to complain too much.
Daive works in the margin of sayings, picking them apart. The "white decimal" is at "the edge of space." So begins Decimal Blanche, a crunch of "death's counter-days." Spare, seemingly procedural, using concretion but only in the modal, or "thrown," this was Jean Daive's introduction of his work into the American conversation around objectivism. Norma Cole steps in for Cid Corman's original translation, and blows the dust off the sills and shades.
I don't think this translated very well from the original French version. It was just like someone had open a dictionary and randomly picked out words that made no sense in context with one another.
I think perhaps I just didnt get this. I understand its a translation from a classic french poem so maybe something was just lost for me. I can see beauty and potential in this but it didn't do it for me.