—George Burgess, 1850
On Earth
“now appears to us in a mysterious light”
“did this happen? could it have happened?”
“everything ahead of her clear for the rest of her life”
“La terre nous aimait un peu je me souviens.”
“I try to keep from wanting the morphine. I pray with both hands.”
“Lima, Alpha, Uniform, November, Charlie, Hotel, Echo, November, Alpha, Bravo, Lima, Echo. Pap. Lima, Charlie, Alpha, Zero, One. Acknowledge. Out.”
“man and cart disappeared in the blast, but their shadows remained on the bridge”
“these diaries a form of weather”
(a future hinting at itself)
(all of this must remain)
(on illness, after radiation; a mysterious illness)
(something) whispering
(the sadness when a hand—)
—with the resistance of a corpse to the hands of the living—
“open the book of what happened”
a barnloft of horse dreams, with basin and bedclothes
a bit of polished quiet from a locked church
a black coat in smoke
a black map of clouds on a lake
a blackened book-leaf, straw and implements
a blue daybook hidden in my bed with his name
a branch weighted with pears
a brittle crack of dawnlight
a broken clock, a boy wakened by his father’s whip, then the world as if whorled into place —
a broken equation, a partita
a bullet clicking through her hair
a bullet-holed supper plate
a burnt room strewn with toy tanks
a century passing through it
a chaos of microphones
a city a thousand years
a city shaken and snowing
a coin of moonlight on the shattered place
a confusion of birds and fishes
a consciousness not within us
a corpse broken into many countries
a cup of sleep
a desire to live as long as the world itself
a door opening another door
a feather forced through black accordioned paper
a field of birds roasted by the heavens
a goodness that must forget itself
a grave strewn with slipper flowers
a groundskeeper’s knowledge of graves
a hole in light, an entrance
a horse grazing in an imaginary field
a horse of wire, wine-corks and wax
a horse tangled in its tether
a hotel haunted by a wedding dress
a house fallen in
a house fallen into itself
a house in time, years from the others, light-roofed, walls shimmering
a hurried life, a knife on newsprint
a lace of recent snow
a language known only to parrots
a life in which nothing is lived
a light, n’y voir que du bleu, blind to something
a litany of broken but remembered events
a little hotel in the city with its windows open
a little invention for sweeping crumbs from the table
a locket’s parted lovers face to face
a man repainting his wooden house in stopped time
a man vanishing while he danced
a man who built cottages for tourists until he went blind
a memory through which one hasn’t lived
a message deflected by other messages
a message from a secret self
a mist of geese rising
a moment of bluesmoke
a moment of sycamores in low mist
a moon caught in the bare hold of firs
a moon haloed in high cirrus
a name which should not be written
a new world, entirely other
a no-longer-beyond
a parcel of copper wire, plastique and a clock
a parrot learning its language from a ghost
a past to come
a phrase shifting epochs
a pinch of salt, a fist of sugar
a plumbago curtain withdrawn from the radiance
a poplar in the sun, a pouch of coins, between layers of sleep where one lives another life beside this, awakening in the grave, brushing mother’s hair in the kitchen
a random life caught in a net of purpose
a record-keeper of human and earthly life
a rifle loaded with moments
a rivulet of sweat on the brow of the one keeping watch
a road erased by light
a road that ends nothing
a salvage yard of burnt office furniture and household goods
a scarf of smoke from a mouth
a schooner sailing in a bottle of light
a scriptorium
a search without hope for hope
a searchlight washing the fields
a secret that stands apart from every secret
a single turn, then years on the same road
a snow of ash risen from winter months
a spiral of being
a spirit gold-breathed, something not made only of
a stairwell spiraling
a stalled ambulance
a steep wooden staircase
a sudden reticence that seizes the heart
a syllable a dove
a taxi and three gunmen
a taxi its four doors open its lights out
a telephone ringing in an empty house
a ticking telex
a traffic jam of refugees on a desert road
a train rounding low sand hills
a veiled window a camera hidden in a loaf of bread
a veiled window where appears a revenant
a walnut box of world and light
a war-eyed woman
a web of survivals
a wind of burnt documents borne by wind
a white rain, then your face becoming another’s
a white road
a white road billowing behind the relief trucks
a white road ending in one’s own life
a whitened eye clouded with gnats
a willow vase, more bedsheets flaring over the furniture
a wind lifting washed linen
a wind-flock of butterflies
a window of grilled hens
a wire fence woven with pine boughs
a woman in a blowing coat on the tarmac
a woman rubbing the mirror until she is gone
a woman sitting on a window ledge as if about to vanish
a word dissolved into the yet-again
a world set in language and deserted
a world thought into being
a wreath on water
a year passing through itself
a yellow mosaic of remains
above a pacific slumber of white houses
above a salon de thé
absent in a garden of watered roses
acres of blue wind
after having gone all the way to the end
after his internment and before his suicide
again and again
against a sea of recriminations
against a winter pine, eating a sparrow
against this, that
air filled with ash, notebooks with sorrowing ink
airfield to airfield
algebraic music
all night the boats calling out
all of them, à-dieu
all questioning to myself
allées of tall trees
alluvial plains
alpha rays of plutonium
although we are a small group on a private tour
America a warship on the horizon at morning
American university T-shirts among the executed
among white birch stands
an ache of such l
ight
an ache of such light fixed in the bone
an anonymous work performed
an authorized death a non-authorized death
an inn for phantoms
an inner tact
an object that disappears from the word
an olive field of ordnance
an ossuary
an oven of birds
ancient light having reached us
and all questions, and all questions about questions
and among the stars, those too distant to be seen
and collective memory a dread of things to come
and for women who desire men
and have left undone
and in the dream Ce voyage, je voulais le refaire
and in the villages laundry hanging for months
and in their eyes the years taken from them
and it is certain someone will be at that very moment pouring milk
and it is supposed that we are describing the world
and its corresponding moment in the past
and night, a knock at the window
and night, a storehouse
and on the battlefield, our anatomy lessons
and phrases like: vanishing pianos
and she body and promising light she exists
and silence the most mysterious form of affection
and standing in phosphorus rain, the man I have not yet married
and that another will be uttering its first human word
and the glass-winged bats hang in the darkness
and the gun though loud has not discharged
and the house? there. which became what it was because of us
and the marigold the flower of worry
and the shell etching a horizon into our window as it passed
and the trains, the way they come, they tell me it is not the truth but I remember it
and time, speeding as it departs
and we fell into each other laughing the laugh of the newly dead
and we, separated on earth by decades
and what intervened more, war or the passage of time?
and what of those who have made this same journey?
and whispering what could
and writing, the guardian of the past
angelica, anne’s lace, antiphon, aria, ash, asylum
another child filling its mouth with pillow
ants in a city of peony
apparition in a vacant house
appears to feel the soul go forth
apple blossoms and wet wind
approaching the other with empty hands
aria in time of war
armfuls of furze, lupine, cornflower
as a flame is linked to its burning coal
as a mirror changes a face
as a rain, however brief, changes the world
as all afternoon the clouds float west to east, leaf-smoke and lake wind, pumice and plumbago gray, white-storeyed, rain-logged
as any backward look is fictive
as any conflagration or struggle is understood
as any new act inflicts its repetition
as crows mark the fog
as for children, so for the dead
as gloves into a grave
as God withdrawing so as to open an absence
as he appears and reappears in the unknown
as if a flock of geese were following
as if there were no other source of food
as if to say goodbye to his own mind
as if we had only one more hour
as if with the future we could replace the past
as in the childhood of terror and holiness
as light or the retreat of light
as memory, a futile attempt
as more beautiful than it had been because it is lost
as rain before it reaches us
as rain strikes the pails in our tents of wakefulness
as the fence has recorded the wind
as the water in which the corpse has been washed
as those who have returned have said
as though when past and present converge, there is a gap
as thought affects the universe in as yet immeasurable ways
as unexpected rain craters the fields
as when cicadas sing at the cenotaph
ascending to the stone-cool stars
ash manuscript, death aria, hunger fugue
ash sailing ashen wind
at once in this world and the world to come
at the city’s edge the aged cooling towers
at the edge of a forest once for making violins
at the end of their journey, the petals they carry vanish
at the end, where they carry his body
at the point where language stops
at the ticket window, and again in the fruit stalls, a kilo of open melon, in the train without stopping, rain of yellow tickets, broken turnstile
at writing’s border, as if memory were of everyone, forgetting no one, such a cold happiness!
awakening dans le vrai
back to the blowing-out of birthday candles
back to the crystal ring of a toast
back to the furl of his shirt in a hot wind
back to the razing of every edifice
balefire, balcony, balm, belief, benediction
bamboos bleached by light
bananas hacked clean on the stalk, tangerines pulled down with their leaves
bare trees in fog, umbrellas opening all at once
barefoot by choice in the thin sea, by choice wearing black cotton
bats hanging from the rafters, long polished corridors open
bats singing along walls
because we cannot emerge
beds in the great open-air sickbay
before and behind us
behind the face that speaks to us and to whom we speak
beings who have chosen one another
bell music rolling down the roofs
between here and here
between hidden points in the soul
between hidden points in the soul born from nothing
between saying and said
beyond what one has oneself done
birchbark curling from the birch limbs
birds dropping from flight leaving cries in the air
birds in the clerestory, a tapestry of broken light
biting hard the fear
black corn in the fields, crib smoke, and bones enough to fill a sack
black fingernails, blue hands, lost hair
black storms of dream
black with burnt-up meaning
blessed be a knowledge that burns thought
blood rose and love
blossoming poplars
blossoming walls, a grave digger’s tunic, a newspaper kiosk in rain
blossoms yet again inside us
blue lobelia rising along the gate
blue-leaved lilies
blue-winged roofs and rooflight
boat scraps washed leeward
bone child in the palm a bird in the heart
bone-clicking applause of the winter trees
bones of the unknown
bones smoothed by water
book of smoke, black soup
born with a map of calamity in her palm
both windows open to whatever may happen
bottled light tossed into the sea with no message
bring forth what is within
bring in your whispering harvest
broken clouds return from the past
broken space, ruined birds, death’s heaven
but in a change of worlds you weren’t you
by someone who was not and would not revient
by the time we were face to face
by which we is not the plural of I
Ça ne veut pas rien dire
caged canaries before each shop as if the street were a minesha
ft
canticle, casement, casque, cerement, cinder
capable of a fate other than its own
cathedral bells chiseling the winter air
cathedral of shivering light
Ce voyage, je voulais le refaire
certain of thought but not of what is seen
chandeliers in shellfire, chaotic light
charnel house of the innocents
checkpoints, roadblocks, barricades, points of entry
children shouting goodbye in a hot wind
christmas lights in smoke
cinema does not describe this moment
city through the filth of a bus window
clouds of lake water, light and speech
clouds of road behind us
clouds returning to the sky from the past
cocoa, whistling pine, ceiba, ylang-ylang, rain
code for key turns
cognac steadying the night
cold fire-pit
cold stalks of daylily
come, love, through burning
composed of light
converging on my own life
cordite wind, one’s first cordite
corn black in the fields, crib smoke, bones, a rib cage
corrugated fields, sheep on the bare fields of drought
cotton mats spread on the floors of classrooms
countries erased from their maps
cratered memory cratered field
crows took rye scraps from her hands
curtains of rain opening
dark, borne within us
dead woman giving birth to rats
dear Françoise of bravery under fire
death is not the conclusion of earthly life
death is the descent of the one called
décryptage
destroys what it briefly illuminates
detritus reaching through a window washed away by wind
difference which she is not to speak
digging a hole in the floor for no apparent reason
disquiet and the book of disquiet
dissolved into the yet-again
distance measured in space or time
do we interpret the words before we obey the order?
doors opening, stones humming the foretold
dovecote, drum, dust
doves on the gray limbs of winter poplar
down a desert road aerially strafed
drawings doomed to be destroyed by bullets
Blue Hour Page 2
