AS IF THE COLD WERE TO LOOK (no words preyed upon by a need what could use supplication though with nothing to bow down but much to fall before so much startle hence the weak knees these staggered eyes hardly full so young though thought so old as if dying there it creeps given to the dark-eyed wonder of the blink the still sought dream of things the flesh which might glow if only of forgetting know not what to hold if holding be the one that has not shed nor been shed like the need or the sight which blindness brought and no longer grasping rather a slow fall head bent down to the knees then lips to the turf what it is reaching like this almost returning through the umber of a stare unreflected yet still so bright as if a night were full of these scattering memories across the sky and echoing from within a windowless embrace UPON MORNING (the water of brightness returning but the hands still clasped the wearing away of faces and the burning of names the perfume of flesh littered still asking FINDING ITSELF (begging the seed of a smile from blindness the tug of a river whose water is this sleep no longer dreaming in the bitter head of thought but fresh amidst the fog and thunder of origins the constellated mirror of living unreflected in the slumber and joy of pursuit the sandworn beauty of yellowing with age the distant memory of return blown bright while the hands cover the eyes WREATHED IN BREATHING (the blaze deep to the scarred sight the wound nearly as beautiful even in this blindness what to touch as shape is defined however clearly and still without limit the bright murmur which speaks more of joy than the most ecstatic wag of reason what the head once raised the sight glorious until no more than the weary glow of flesh as through the dark it stumbles and stumbling reveals that discovered upon being bent what licked by the tongue sent through the dirt all in the hindered groping of the dazzled sight the umbric need of imageless reflection the seed scattered by the leaden eyes when slow wonder dropped to its knees and with its wings embraced the scent which ash has become such grace
CLOUDS
IN THE DAMP (begging of words cramped nothings of the heart what the tale or churning churning that is the time the pestilent thud of the itch anything which drags the weary butt from one end to the other as if there could be an end rather than this slow tilt and what of it naturally until now falling or perhaps sliding most likely winding up in a lick the tongue long dry finally wordless in its rasping coming upon the breath a lone encounter one which might have settled for pity except for the romance of it for there is none merely the bleached embrace resulting in perhaps a word but more likely akin to the fluttering of wings while eyes pale and dizzy with want eyes which might have been are still hollow not knowing why when all that they have seen comes to this no not the stomping but the fluttering the fluttering which cannot be felt the stutter which lingers before they close this perhaps could end grind to a halt all white if the heart were strong enough but as it is the itch returns or at least the breath and with it the tongue sputters in the milky silence which follows
Paris, October 24 1990
PORTRAIT AT THIRTY
“For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increases knowledge increases sorrow.”
Ecclesiastes
EYES SPARKED BY DREAMS (first sound lament tired eyes howling blue until morning for what is sought is stone immobility like unto thee but this too a suffering the same for each those remembered but what of the stuff of heart blasted thing damn throb and thud it too wanes inglorious then swells again as if endless or redundant somehow holds the key fallow dredging of bones grinding of teeth pummeling lids their sight is that the tune and what of singing birdless or the taste of cherries it is difficult to remember let alone forget the drumming of hooves fading the dog hunched upon stone indigo of mind the heart’s eye as blind as these LOST HEAVENS (turning in the belly of silence seeking though one betrays as readily as life or the bursting of what might have been lies yet between the bellowing the only ache is that of the promise HE LOOKS (the colours thick and weary dredged from the marrow clouded by history and vague wants still unbitten and so returning though each time the chain pulled tighter the need to run fainter until the moon itself howls and the yellowed eyes turn away to gnaw the bloodied shank SEEING NOTHING (no longer a need to speak or perhaps all there is a syllabic embrace to replace that which cannot be held and at further distance bellowing that which shared the womb when this too has withered as the stick stares to the point of the mirror and finds itself wanting BUT THE BRILLIANCE (any time now it will have been enough no longer a thought of return but instead the eyes lifeless will stare and the drunken tongue splutter the stars screeching light not tendering a kiss the question of promises will be what truth can be sought without the quilled limb seeking merely the groping of sight and the hollow thunder which echoes dumb within the breath can a smile as often a child be enough dull as we are the sun’s grace be returned WHICH SURROUNDS (the blank gaze of stone detritus to be cuddled the voice of one who is not older merely weary and a bit this heart fallen dumb
Paris, November 21 1990
IN SUCH LIGHT (the first moment unprepared the vision clouded no one singing but the trees and a silence that these stretched to the point and birds there amidst the bursting the proper placement unimportant only the knowledge that these are memories and as such the very essence of being and if the human form knotted then perhaps stacked or laughter can make it through the deafness which comes with age when swallowed by blue and returning the unexpected flight of meeting and the first vision still as ecstatic as the last or faith unlike creation not an act of will but rather the pale eyes near blind though full of joy AS SQUANDERED (and the three so tightly knit that it is near impossible but simply to shelter there itself enough to find what it may be which was lacking and from this the time taken can only be fruitful no the space filled is not a question of value but one of necessity the act of lining itself a fact one which bears its own reward enough that it is granted and though slumped in white not to say shrouded that there are even memories sad it is true yet that this now suffering has stemmed from what was once unquestioned rapture or some other beatitude BY THE VERY FACT (in the dull days which have taken their toll there too something which inhumanly cruel can bring forth such humanity as these eyes have seen a bond which must be known if so impressively recognized the brilliant vision not enough to sustain but instead another way of filling the emptiness which so readily consumes not to colour life but to see its own hues shades finer and more deftly rendered than ever possible by the hand or man these vulgar fragments of a dream a name a face if only OF LIVING (light extracting all but the essentials a wind innocent as the first promise the smile derived from the moment moments have ceased and in the fundaments of need the very love from which we are born
Paris, June 24 1991
OF QUIET LAWNS AND FAMILY BLISS
ENTERING THE WATERS (all these redeeming smiles smothered with the knowledge of joy and words too bright without the murk of smug sorrows or lanced upon the birth of wings tender one would think if that were a question and here not rather a place green in so much of its abandon and lush from out the snub of a conversation not properly placed one need not speak the language to be misunderstood some are merely deaf to their own voice a voice from none a tongue on the tip of the finger WHERE THE REFLECTION (a ballast of whiteness to be taken from its pedestal gaunt ambrosia all the greater there in the shadow of its veritable humanity and the swollen doubt of a world once pregnant with innocence pressing against the sleeve wearing blue when the raiment of solitude would be enough death itself dying IS BUT STONE (for the others knowing the eloquence of prophecy the ceiling a foot or so closer will not now unburden a kiss nor replace the tenderness plied by the simple virtue of touch waking startled knowing that it is their time and somehow when blossoms or the mere fragrance of a name tracked through sand withholding judgment for the moment perhaps forever just the same never released through the labour of acceptance or the sight of a butterfly in mid-winter when waves have ceased to proffer the sole comfort provided the tide attraction marking time upon bended knee and a look is all the prayer required to betray that pleasure does not require sacrifice IN THE EYE (which though apparently sound at times seems quite blind but then how bear the weight of a stroll or standing naked for the first time it is not another night which is sought but rather a day timeless in the noon of its sorrow from which no shadow is cast splendour of the colour wrought by a gesture since silence can no longer echo loss nor departure bring farewell in the quiet trust OF ONE WHO VANISHES (needing this time to remember and without to shed the light accumulated through so many simple acts of grace to unburden the heart of its ecstasy and redeem the weight of years spent in abeyance or time simply to wonder that moments such as these are possible at all
Paris, March 4,1992