Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

9.9.14 [roughest of drafts]

posted January 20, 2015

No one is looking closely
I consoled her many times.
Today was the first I thought
maybe that's not what
she wanted. Someone close
enough to see her skin
as it fit, near as the world
was getting to it: for how
vulnerable she was, flayed
yet young and hopeful still,
dewy with the very wanting
to be stronger and known while
getting there. I am quite alone
too but capable of presenting
myself infinitely from myopia
to those who peer close; few do,
yes, but enough to reflect many
small parts back discretely to me.
I'm fine: as complete as the vision
of the fly, or bee. Or better yet,
only seen completely by the hive:
gathered granularly as pollen
and rendered the pure energy
dance memory of bees. Yes,
taken up by so many I'm lifted
from my own xenotic crumbling
to zen completion. I see. It wasn't
yet the right time to think this way,
or I was always the wrong one for her
to ask: unable to see her without
seeing myself seeing, and so vastly
accompanied, blinded by the muchnness
as to bumble like a fool into the naught.

Lines for Winter, by Mark Strand

posted January 20, 2015

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.


posted January 14, 2015

Oh city, wave and
wake me; wash me with a grit
of braille to name me.


posted December 23, 2014

As two thorned shoots twine
together gently tender
their welled succulence.


posted December 12, 2014

Moving to the heat
like moth beats the snow cold breeze
at my exposed back.


posted November 27, 2014

Settling like snow, cold
clutching root deep, tenderly
intent on wellsprings.


posted November 7, 2014

(NB. a new arrangment of two poems)

i. la dangereuse

Few things are as beautiful as reindeer moss,

        glittering and drenched with frost; or the rattle of chestnut
brown leaves against the fall blue. Or the full lit moon, casting

        fleet, slip-away frostbows like evasive dreams; or my sister
hydroplaning in a midnight storm and wrecking her car.

ii. la noyée*

The last piano music I heard my sister play has just begun –

light through the greening heather of March, the distance between sprig and  rain

– snapped to a standstill in refrain: the rain falling, the sprig in a vase

and this in shadow to dissuade loss of colour, put out of the light

that final music: her hair untravelled by wind, curled up, kitten-thin.


posted November 5, 2014

You've not heard from me,
the hush writ listening to
rain, to fall, to you.