On the abrasive, glassy sand, he understands
xi
wisdom, and longevity. Snake and not serpent, you and not a biting reptile,
and sing and sing, as a nightingale to its mate, beautiful from so much self :
the souls of others / and the computer is in save and there’s no lifesaver,
Not this is the poem that is the poem, as this is the poem that’s not dedicated to you;
I’m not waiting for a reply, not waiting for you to be
Like a girl, mounting any imagination like a rider on a horse,
and no matter where she’ll gallop to, it comes and comes
to awareness of that, and a little less clear
and images-that-are-there. Say, is “awakening”
like the world, like a recurring dream, does not come and will not arrive
nor the other way around. The poem says that “twilight” is its place,
the sun or sunset. The picture of consciousness comes out
and thus exists; the picture of consciousness hatches, thus what-is exists.
picture by picture, as if there’s a lineup for being; white stains
that were grooved by water, that fell from above.
are made, and also I myself. Say, and I’ll be.
and looking for an ashtray. All this was written. Now you. Now what’s the difference
xii
Will you come? Will I be happy to meet you? Will the door
and will their names still be explicit? Fire of heart,
firewood to their flames now, is your face
Is it not that butterflies were consumed? Do the fires thus burn,
that consumes the bread? Will I see you when you sit in front of me?
a there-country lies in my stomach. Where does this path start
which is all edge? And who goes there, even when I stay?
into a pair of neck bones, what kind of sign is this
and another line ascends from the poem to touch the image, but
we don’t have contempt for happiness. And what’s happiness! A calm sacrifice fire
the cavities of our stomach, our chest. For now you only remember
it’s hot. Smoke rises and something burns, and if we’ll continue – we’ll be consumed.
and not from excitement. We wave a newspaper, a letter,
cold night’s air. And it’s already late. Someone has to
and we understand: come when you won’t come. Tomorrow it will be possible
Instead of all this I shut the door and open the wall,
xiii
And when you’ll come here, remember this, remember how we got here:
on a slalom track of here and gone, flickered for another
was swallowed before hearing: only this ability, to shatter,
a sky’s thud. We rode on time; we could have over taken
to get out of this for a moment before license will be asked for: what did you want?
This can also be asked about a woman or a poem or
nothing, other than a complete exterior, if there’s such a thing at all.
that’s lain here in such doubt, that it exists more than ever –
sit in front of me and fall, straight into your eyes; and fall deep,
there will be room to fall. It’s always possible to stop at the side of the road:
to call this “misunderstanding” – and blink on the side of the lane
A seed that was sown in sand, waits
xiv
It’s very easy to betray me with me. Try, I even forgive,
to leave flowers on the desk, notes
to water you with gin and tonic (tall glass).
or play with a ball or a teddy-bear as if only they are
reports. Someone shot himself in the head on a live broadcast,
The memory works like a tired fisherman; crocodiles, sharks
as over boards of a sinking ship. All this
and take you to the sea. The sea is stormy, just as
one woman here, who emitted a scent of blood. You return
I take out a pencil and paper, and draw you a poem:
in the wet sand, smell of sea weeds and salt, and kilometers of blue
even though it never happened this way. You raise your gaze
Snake, you say. I say serpent.
And then you say that snakes were always also a symbol for medicine,
fly above the main street, gracefully land on a cherry tree
the phone bursts, like howls at the end of an alley / the fax throws up
and this begins again, and only begins. / This already was.
I rest the poem on any face that I choose,
in front of my finger in “reality”. Hello to you, reality!
galloping on the “merely-image” which no place is vacant of,
with you. It’s clear enough when wandering from awareness of this
when agreeing so much between us on images-that-are-here,
one thing? (Is falling arriving?) this poem
from the dream to the “world”, from night to day,
and already it’s inside it, without needing
like a nestling from an egg of a warm possibility: there is what thrills
I’m only describing what I saw or heard –
of a seagull flock on the sea, hills of sand
And this is a daily act, of which forks and what they pierce
Going around the room without seeing, without remembering a thing,
between the poem and you?
He’s coming
be the gate? Will three fires still greet your face
fire of head, fire between-the-legs. Is your face
immortal as they are? Will eternal fires persist?
like breath, like fire of the stomach
My beloved, my lover, my question mark! From horizon to horizon
that has no way? Where does this string end,
Except for two arches and a dent between them, except for a slope
that breaks from the chest a lengthy call: come! -- don’t come! --
also here, so far you are not. We don’t know each other. For now
on which our faces are lain, and warmth that brims over
“outside the darkness freezes”. But afterwards –
Instead of this, from a distance, we sweat
create a stir and open a window to inhale
return home, and behind again “come!” and “don’t come!”
to see pain in the sand in which returning footprints were stamped.
and on my door I write: Don’t come from here, always come from there.
Far from itself, he sees himself
living Alpha-Betas remained kilometers behind
moment, vanished from the mirror. What the Alfa-Romeo had to say
kept us together from falling upwards, after it
a thousand more crashes, to wait for the flickering blue approaching behind,
What did you mean? What did you think about? You could have got killed.
a gaze. But nothing will satisfy,
And what is so alluring about this there, what, if not the here,
and still not enough. When you’ll come here, remember this,
far, so that also for me
words, excuses, plugs, gasket –
to any stain that passes through the corner of the eye: take me.
you – no. Now it’s necessary to court you for hours,
on the dining table, to invite you for fish,
You walk around for days with wide eyes
in the world. All this, as the newspapers are full of horrible
and the same thing also happened the previous week, on Dynasty.
and just sardines, that fight over the bait
while you sit in the living-room; what’s the fear? I give you a hand
twenty eight years ago, when a stray shark bit
to your teddy bear-and-ball, and don’t stop not-looking at the sea.
the sea is stormy, your feet sink enwrapped
broken white strips. Now you remember,
and remember everything.