like
a sword-
blow
through us
every
moment
what
it is
time
dripping
through
a desert
or sea-
sand
shadows
setting
into
the
ocean
where
are
you from
oblivion
where are
all these
borders
things
from
long bench
fire
breadknife
tick
tock
or
are you
the same
drop
of oblivion
grown
around
a speck
of stardust
a crystal
of
ice
becoming
a hieroglyph
a feather
in the
earth carpet
thaw water
down
downstream
past
everything
else
drop of
memory
clay
for
making
an
Omar Khayyam
a mug
a crocus
memory
oblivion
remembering
forgetting
black
white
raven
snow
owl
who are
nearly
the same
and
still
between
them
the whole
world
on
which side
of the wall
your
eyes
your mouth
that see
speak
eat
for you
writer
what
do you
pay
them all
these
feet
carrying
you
the stomach
digesting
your
food
for you
how
much
easier
have they
made
your life
how
do you
pay
them
your
self
who
exists
instead
of you
is your-
self
instead
of you
a net
holding
together
potatoes
hands
conscience
intestines
feet
or are you
something
even worse
a parasite
a tapeworm
a self
inside
your
self
inside
this
instant
this body
this
now
living
loathsome
wriggling
bundle of
shadows
that
doesn’t
allow
the eyes
to see
mind
to
remind
itself
life
to live
eyes
fingers
understanding
reaching
deeper
inside
this
instant
tape-
worm
of memory
that
doesn’t
allow you
to dissipate
to forget
to be
how is
it possible
to be
anything
but
free
as if
you
couldn’t
exist
without
this
tapeworm
that wants
to get
its
share of
everything
to tie
together
all the
poems
moments
pain
with a fine
red
ribbon
for you
who are
wrapped
into a
pretty
ornamented
sheet
of paper
a wet
mossy
stone
from
the stream
of memory
consciousness
grown
around
a random
particle
of
ancient
ash
maybe
carrying
traces
of lips
of poems
that
have been
have left
vanished
gone
traces
left
into sand-
stone
lime
-stone
petrified
sea-
bed
sea-
weed
forest
from their
waves
from their
flowing
stones
I have
just been
put
together
this flow
still
in my
blood
my ears
how easy it is to look for to find a metaphor or whatever it should be called and to let it live its own life in the hands of a poet everything then begins to move everything gets wings and becomes light on the other side under the earth the rivers flow from the sea back to the mountains and there in the mouth of an underworld river is a white rock that is as light as everything else and this stone takes flight and sings it sings for you all the songs you wanted to sing it rises the rock rises like a skylark and flies for you everywhere you wanted to fly where then of course to the southern seas no not to the palm trees and pretty girls further to the south where some islands are lost in the silence of the Pacific Falkland Macquarie Kerguelen Bouvet somewhere somewhere in the world there must be something that is unstained and new but all this is only poetry nobody believes it but why couldn’t it be true from generation to generation from age to age everything has become heavier and heavier things people rocks notes and sounds only words have become weightless and I too cannot put them back bring them back to their meanings but still this weight is not in us is not in the things this is the weight of borders it is a weight that is between us that separates us from everything the weight of names of memory of continuity of regularity the weight of this everyday thing that has been called life the weight of dust from the streets that has been ground from everything from words rocks silence ourselves something that is like a grey flour but really isn’t grey flour that maybe somewhere is called truth and reality but I cannot I cannot even for who knows when who knows when again
I fall
back
there
like
a tapeworm
a parasite
into
my
own
intestines
and still
there
is nothing
inside
that has
not
been
outside
for an
instant
you
are there
built
of rays
and
echoes
of
the
universe
shadow
not person
mirror
not self
somebody’s
glance
which has
looked
an instant
into
you
what islands
then
what
whales
what clouds
swimming
back
into you
what a
sea
Thalassa
Thalatta
at your
orchard
gate
what a sea
what a sea
what a sea
what
a
return
of
the soul
return
of all
killed
skylarks
bards
kings
their
return
home
to
Revala
Sakala
to the Antipodes
Falkland
Bouvet
Kerguelen
coming
back
turning
back
returning
this way
a way
away
new
flaming
as fire
coming
back
to the
beginning
beginning
anew
as fire
as flames
fiery to die in flames
fiery to be born in flames
flames my friends my own kin
returning
being
reborn
in flames
come
come
back
away
your
own
way
but
don’t
forget
who
what
I
have been
here
for
ten
eleven
years
lying
on
my
face
on
the earth
where
my
chiefs
my
kings
have died
have been dead
seven
eight
thousand
years
is there
a
place
for any-
thing
between
us
between
me
and them
me
and their
coming
back
for any-
thing
but
fire
but
sleep
lying
on
my
face
in a
dry
river
bed
until
they
believe
pain is pain
sighs are sighs
tears are tears
until
the bed
boards
are
wholly
rotten
mugworts
rise
through
me
through
the bed
boards
until
they
believe
in the
death
sleep
I
am
sleeping
with Osmi
who was sick
for
seven years
eight summers
together
with rocks
words
countries
with Lembity from leole rebel chief who had his head cut off sent to Rome with four kings electedby the Estonians and sent to negotiate with the Knights and put to death by them hewn into pieces
in Paide Pala Muhu Tartu Tallinn Estonia Livonia Alesia Wounded Knee
sleep
filling
fields
waste lands
wheels
and
chimneys
up
to the
brim
what then
remains
for
the awakening
what stays
awake
if even
sleep
is full
of the same
dust
and grinding
of
teeth
something
deeper
yet
behind
this sleep
this dream
this
waking
on the
other
side
in a
huge
huge
sea
islands
Kerguelen
an
other
dream
full ot
southbound
swans and
sails
your flight
your wings
wings
above
these
islands
seas
islands
islands
archipelagoes
full of
your
mute
feathers
flakes
of snow
covering
everything
snow
always
coming
back
ice
glaciers
coming
coming
do you
hear me
soul
my little
soul
do you hear
is
every
body
tired
asleep
is fire
still
awake
is fire
the
lost
soul
self
tired of
coming
back
ash of
burnt
feathers
burnt
songs
white
flakes
covering
everything
all
Ugandi
Uganda
Valgatabalve
Kalahari
Kerguelen
the king is dead
the kings are dead
the gods are dead
glaciers are coming
covering everything
we live in the ice age
still
my dream
a dream only
fire my own kin
who believes
a song
a sigh
who believes
tears
until
the bed
is rotten
the fire
is off
even
if you
do
not
come
I
still
refuse
to say
welcome
yes
hello
to
it
to
ice
if it
comes
it
comes
by
itself
un-
wanted
un-
greeted
ice
death
weariness
everything
except
the
lost
soul
o
knots
tighten
I
am
falling
back
but
where
no
direction
no
centre
only
your
pride
about
having
looked
into
the eyes
of
the glacier
having told it
something
to
its
face
ah
let
it all
be
let me
my-self
stay
with
its
pride
in the
white
glittering
ice
of death
sleep
there
is
is
only
this flame
fire
far
away
high
up
on
the
hill
grave candle
tallow lamp
from
the
Palaeolithic
fire
flame
at
least
for the
sake of
this
splendid
dream
where I
could
stay
with your
non-existent
heather
forests
three kings
four kings
Melchior
Kaspar
Balthasar
Lembitu of Leole
Crazy Horse
Dull Knife
37 degrees South
58 degrees North
Macquarie
Sakala
Muhu
Kerguelen
we live in the ice age
we live in the ice
Selected Poems Page 13
