from Light
Itinerary
Everywhere a tiny straw
that floats away
pain portions out its color
on stones and fragile water
Everywhere a memory’s last power:
where were we last year, now?
earth covers your brow?
You drowned…but here
we can rest, my dear
portion out time carefully
eat, sleep, see the sights…bye-and-bye
good old Europe! Perhaps!
but don’t you forget the maps!
where did we go last summer?
tiny straw floats away.
Men’s Voices
Men’s voices in the dark
—once in a temple—
men’s voices in the sun
—once I was caryatid
number nine—
men’s voices in the park
—I was a statue
untouchable naked
with no other mirror
than the fingers of the air
yielding to thought after thought
with no other sadness
than the rustling of leaves—
men’s voices in the park:
why did they waken me?
from Grass
To Go In
To go in without knowing it
To point at the door without knowing it
To go into the mountain and it is you
To go farther in and it is not certain
To go still farther in
and there is always room
and it is you they move
and it is always open
and it is you that is open
without knowing it endlessly open
They had lit a sun
They had raised a flag
To go farther in
from Letter in April
from IV
IV
•••••
So here we sit
in this violent solitude,
where bulbs work
underground,
and we wait.
Around noon
when the mountain rain stops,
a bird stands
on a stone.
Around evening
when the heart stands empty,
a woman stands
in the road.
Her face
is wrinkled and round
and it looks
as if she is remembering
herself back
in time
while silently
figuring
when
and why
she might have last
seen a human being.
She nods
and leaves.
••
I see the wood anemones.
I don’t imagine
that the anemones
see me
but still there is,
while they oxidize
the forest air
and in the crumbling
afterimage
as after burning
magnesium,
something that tells me
I am more visible
•
Tell me
that things
speak
their own
clear
language.