in field latin
the stay
one evening they came
the dead of my house
back from the train-station. one
after the other, with
balled fists, reminiscent
of tulips in their
night-reserve, reminiscent,
in the long being-dead, of all
the wasted time. from way back now
all’s been theirs: every word, just
out of the lips, every good
sentence, as always
the home-made liverwurst, the
plum preserves, in addition
all the cigarettes & whatever
alcohol in reach. ceaselessly
they watched tv, ate chocolate (in huge
amounts) & whispered
verses to themselves. one evening
they came the dead of my house
back from the train-station. it was december &
their next train did not leave till march
everything about me
there was a time when very slowly
with my ears from out
of the rain i came, saw rain
& could think of rain.
like oil gods
the old motors would crawl
out behind the hill &
the harvest began. i
would stick my arms deep
into the grain, would press
the seeds between my fingers &
had to close my eyes.
down from the beam hung a thin
skim of fat, upon which the dead
flies slept &
in the hollow mold of the walls
hovered a child who
would call on me. he knew
everything about me
when you have the benefit of hindsight
why all the same i like
to come here: it’s the cold
on the eyes, impression-less places which
scatter one’s glance: houses, trees, cattle – sunk
into the sound
of another plot. there
it’s not really an i that speaks, it’s
the small soft fingertips that
grow outwardly along the doors, it’s
the doves’ scissor-like wings that
push their ribcages out & yet
still climb, slowly
with tucked feet; when
you have the benefit of hindsigh
tmaybe it’s the day’s last light
upon the bird’s chest. from
cornerstone to cornerstone the chaff
of its shadow springs, lines upon which
the dead’s voices ring. when
you have the benefit of hindsight they breathe directly in-
to your face: lodger, house-book keeper, aranka, who
sang from out of the hollows of her knees…you
must meditate your own bones again too, kommata
in the syntax of this region