A hand stirs
beneath the flesh
according to the time
and place
this hand can clothe itself
with a stone
or a bird
similarly
a tree can clothe itself
*
From a tree’s point of view
the flesh can easily
slip into a bird
a hand can easily
clothe itself with itself
and in a vast flight
ascend to the nocturnal temple
where the onomatopoeic
rose
and day’s name
appear
thorns and all
*
Limpid space
where the gaze
flushes with light
We must return
to the heart
shade
where feather and brook lurk
*
Each poem
attempts the ultimate
the ground where the eyes’
flower blossoms
*
Rose of pensive flesh
opening
unashamed and fleeting
offering its night to the sky
The nakedness which touches
the heart
offers love to beauty
*
Under the slender apple tree
a feather lingered
a bird’s petal
decomposing from flight
a ponderous occurrence
that it was
so comfortable
to lean against the air
and find there
similar repose
I had no idea
*
On the path
a silence rested
I offered the sign
to my eyes
white and somber
dawn appeared
a wing flash
across the silent dark
*
Dawn
barely a dream
and this murmur
I see the river again
and the red bird
blue
perched upon a sullen reed
unfinished
*
The horizon reborn from the night
a tree still awake
like a boat’s sails
the gulls reunited with
infinity
*
Over the frosty white
expanse
the sky shuddered
jewels of a precious bracelet
the birds spread their wings
*
The elm
skin of a frozen
wave
shot
from the gaze the arrow
slayed time and distance
*
The wind wrote
upon the water
dug a void
where a sign
vivid shadow and fish
freely swam
*
Deep in the expanse
the broken shutter parts
dark the dwelling
distant the passing wing
resting mute
in front of the fireplace
the cold bed
the tooth of the cliff
that once struck the sea
*
Rending open the sky
it passes
great cloak of silence
reclaimed by the horizon
wings spread
upon the earth
around the eye
an azure burns
*
An imperceptible tree
bears the sky
from the garden
the gentle dew of love
falls
the moment dies
or blossoms
*
The blood which forms
on the finger
touches the sky
so many leaves on the tree
so many whispers
*
The forgotten
mirror of air
sometimes creates a surface
heedless
the gesture gardens
*
Actual
desire of absence
in each root
the blue enigma quivers
*
Source
that nothing exhausts
passage
of feminine repose
remain enshrined
eye
do not take flight
*
For the dead
the straw is dry
and the dog prowls
around the glowing embers
light
divine fabric
the shore is here
*
Claude Margat
Skyward, Pensum Press, 1999