viii
What have I to do with it, this poem - now, as my gaze lingers
yet separated from the world; and only desire stands
and what’s not. Since this poem has no subject, just like
you or me,
since this poem has no subject, but only a predicate,
than a spot of light after a gaze at the sun, only movement
are drawn, it seems, from space impressions, that were indicated, it appears,
the scent of a tree, from here the roots are not earth. Up to here
by a brown stain or two), now another line: it’s the petiole,
whose names are a lake or rain. Outside there’s light, it’s called a day;
it’s a shadow. And it’s wonderful, because then one can say: “here is an oak”,
“hi, I missed you”, “go to hell!” “where
grows less than the world though withers as the world does,
So let’s keep a distance as distance: the hand that is between me and you
ix
No matter where you’ll look it’s here. “This poem” is returning home
crossing lands in stormy water, ascending air to a never-ending sky
like memory; you sit inside, early early in the morning,
from the fog, a fig tree grows in the old water pit,
And still, what does one say to a tree when its bark touches my cheek
is one word that contains no name, and the faded remains and only remains;
you begin. Where does it happen, where did it happen,
after all, brought us our faces back?
returned to the distance. And again, “This poem . . .” never mind,
never mind.
x
And yet we are here, equipped with all. Feet,
faces and interiors, neighbours, cities, nations. We are here,
Some say, that life is its own continuation opposite another possibility,
between the life and its absence, and some say that life
lives are not a life. I say: you.
the sights. At home lamps are lit. Also in the light there’s no glance
seeing it; and it bears no relief but longing, and no death
and I long for the one who sees me through touching,
for one more moment after, or in between, as words haven’t
between its beginning and end, between what is inside it
and all the rest remains without being more present
is the subject here; the poem rests upon it. And all the other things
in the hight of movement’s flight: from here it’s a tree, from here onwards
a leaf (a divided green surface, its margins dented, flawed
and soon -- a branch. Inside there’s water, and outside there’s water
inside it’s something else, which concerns photosynthesis, and behind --
“here is my neighbour, Michelle”, and even more:
were you all this time?”, but no tree
or is also registered as “tree” inside the “world” inventory.
is remembrance and forgetfulness of someone that has no outside.
The mouth that suckled, is the mouth that nurses in a howl
from everywhere to everywhere, and no place is vacant of it –
forgetting how your face looks, until it suddenly rises from the sights,
and cannot but see:
and the grass is tall and moist, still line to line, still green to the touch.
and it has no visible beginning. All this conversation
where do you end, and where anew and again
and why does it hurt, and what is it that hurts, and what,
Sheep tore off and chewed above. Light examined palms of leaves. Time
In water he is a sea anemone. Extend arms of a flower, carnivore.
back, bicep, eye, ear, nose, tongue and skin; we are here:
breathing, living. And what is learnt from this?
some say -- conquest; some stretch an equal sign
was given to us for the service of those whose
And this can be easily explained: again the night wraps
except that from the mirror, nothing but what sees me
but life. And I take out from the warm and from the cold, the night wraps,
and I don’t remember a thing. Only this.