Now I am sunk and strong
in the morning and in the
after the rain,
a line of thick haze engulfs the
the soaked field and the brown last leaves
crowd into my gaze.
I breathe the fullness of the siroccos silence,
the morning that
settles in with sky and mud.
I am the perspiring hill,
I come from the
womb of red loam
and white-washed stones and bones,
I am settled in the
frame of swollen-still clouds
and leaves that stick to my ground
their slow wrist and fist
and mist that grasps the breast.
The buzzard beats its hard wings,
heavy wings that wait
for the relief of a thermal,
but theres no thermal in this calm
and they beat on and on, nevertheless.
Sunk and sure and slow in the airs depths.
In my staring breath.
( while reading Suite Française by
I am in the childs eyes and on her
cheeks, on the loamy earth
smeared on her fingers, compact
nails, I am in her curls
flashing like wheat.
She had entered the spell
in the drone
of the bumblebees, the lights drone
in the grass,
the boundless blue crossed
by the sunlights throat.
some words of the talk
between the French wife and the German officer
and she heard well the womans final no,
the rest she
sensed, a hidden yes
that had lingered in the May field
despite the acres of rubble and smoke,
a yes that had
echoed in the lit
perseverance of the bumblebees.
Their drone sunning my breath now
in this rainy day,
filling the silence
with the grip of thousands of tiny legs
Dawn comes at last, late in the winter solstice,
least its a clear day, a breath of blue
is rising down there,
rose-veined, a silent,
slow, steady spreading, with rags of dark
feathers from a still dark horizon:
my view now from the train window.
Thoughts, words, trickling on it
like shadows of fingers,
riveted to our garden, their light
calm like dew, but like dew with a
that can be only urgent, earth eyes
with sailing, staring
-I feel I dont have much time,
I dont want to waste
and I, trying to dissimulate
what is too crystal clear,
trying my best
Now I breathe, the light
the land, like clarity,
the quiet now of what was said.
Time is not to
The note of the landscape.
Its pearly nakedness.
At The Grave
I am pouring the water into the bowl,
up to the brim
and cutting the base of the flower stems,
I smell the fresh green, this
breath of earth.
I want them to stand
straight and tight, a
in their lilacs, yellows and whites
and like a silent joy the
of a blood-red rose saying-
here I am, to the light-grey granite.
On leaving, I catch myself once more
saying goodbye- to a name
and feeling accomplished.
Like the accomplished, rich and severe
wind in the cypresses.
I know, deep down, the illusion of being.
afraid, I pretend to know it.
I want to be aware that
I am no more here
than they are,
there under the granite.
But I still feel so much here.
Still. A flicker of awareness
glad to have greeted
a name in a new
thicket of flowers.
The strand stretched and washed clear
by the tight
Along the blossoming waves
the churning skin of the
You can wait. You can talk of it.
But nothing is
like being here under its eyes.
The immanence of a fierce flower.
tiger a few steps on your left
that doesnt need to attack yet.
And you are moved
by what can devour you,
The teeth and
of the present
in its grasping stare.