On Ten Fingers
My gaze
a tuning fork’s hum
the intervals of my bloodstream
fall in line, incognito
and one can see the light arrive
The door is open
and the saddest sign of all comes in
the lamp is lit
when a hand which fusses
around the lampshade
– yes, it’s transparent –
falls at last into the sugar bowl
violin (quit)
book (closed)
mouth (mute)
the eyes look up at me
and I half-close my eyelids
a word
the last
I hold in my fingers
their hand, still warm
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Freeze Frame
The sun prowls again around the house
when a window opens
The drunks are still there
but the all-night song has stopped
What voice is calling me now
calling softly from the other side of the nearest wall
laughing
the men are there
sleeping
and it isn’t the same mouth which was singing
in the distance a woman cries out
on the edge of the balcony her fingers inch along
they are slender, tapered
and it’s these fingers I’m watching
while someone keeps calling me
from every field and every street
people arrive
in black clothes
in gray clothes
and still others in shirtsleeves
a car clouds up the road with dust
the house is now full of strangers
and since no one sings
the men are woken up
the pendulum has stopped
no one moves …
as though there’s no more night left
with which to cover the images
it’s an old photo taken from its frame
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The Monotonous Day
Because of the water the roof is slippery
because of the rain everything’s been swallowed up
the gasoline the alcohol and my little candle
have burned down the house
No birds in the garden
no sounds in the garden
where you go to gather the black flowers
the leaves never green anymore
all the thorns bright red
and your hands covered in blood
A procession passes down the middle of the lane
past the window of the deceased
where a candle is burning
as it lets out a slow song
It was her as well as
another neighbor
everybody sings at the top of their lungs
And on the stairs where someone was laughing
someone else falls and cries out
and is rescued by a dog
one hears only the weeping of the rain
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For The Moment
Life is simple and gay
the bright sun is ringing out with a sweet sound
the bells are quieter, calmer now
this morning light covers everything
my head is a lit-up entrance
and at last it’s bright in the room where I live
A single ray’s enough
a single loud guffaw
my joy makes the house shake
restraining those who wish to die
with the notes of its song
I sing badly
and it’s quite funny
my mouth fly-catching wide
out-of-tune notes shooting everywhere
I don’t even know how they got out
hurtling towards the ears of the others
but listen, I’m not crazy
laughing at the foot of the stairs
in front of the big open door
Through the green vine
sunlight lattices the wall
and my arms are held out to you
at this moment, today, I love you
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Losing One’s Head
In the street where no one walks
between the number 13 and the number 30
it’s been some time since then
all of that day and the next
I am there I’m waiting
waiting for you
From far away, from just over there, from everywhere
where you came from you don’t come back again
you’ve known that world and the other one
and all the things you don’t know
what you deny
what you make fun of
yet on the evening of the departure you were crying
Now the bell rings and I’m there
the people around me don’t look at me
others whom I saw and who didn’t see me
rich people and people with their own sorts of skills
in the end all those of whom one speaks in that moment
and you where are you
why haven’t you returned yet
An outburst in the courtyard
it’s not for me or for them this time
it’s your turn
here you are
sad as always
what a face
there are raindrops
shining in your hair
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Always There
I need to be invisible to myself and to stop
speaking to people whom I don’t know
to shout without being heard
for nothing, that’s all
I know everybody and I want to tell them about
every one of your steps and no one listens
their heads, their eyes turn away from me
towards the night
my head is a ball stuffed tight and heavy
which rolls on the ground with hardly a sound
Far,
nothing behind me and nothing in front
only the emptiness into which I descend
buffeted by these biting gusts of wind
encircling me
cruel and cold
none of the doors are shut all the way
on memories which remain unforgettable
the world is like a stopped clock
people suspended for the rest of eternity
an aviator dropping along a line like a spider
every one lightly dancing
between sky and earth
but a ray of light from the lamp
which you’ve forgotten to put out
on the landing
ah it isn’t finished
the forgetting isn’t yet complete
and I still need to learn how to know myself
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White Ribbon
The wind comes in through a straw in the open sky
a panic-stricken cloud chases its shadow on the shoreline
and on the sunburned platform
a white line
much larger
where the brutal outline rises toward the horizon
Off to the side the sky is crumpling
All the vast ocean softens
on the beach’s sweating skin
where the footprints barely show
The window on the top floor has been discovered:
this is where the night gets in
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The Sky-Blue Coast
The banks are captives
in the wall’s gold chains
prisoners of gardens where the sun hides
close to the virgin forest
the prairie’s lethargy
close to the bridge with the hair-pin curve
sheer as a right angle
the box of clouds opens
and all the white birds fly out at once
a carpet greener than water sweeter than herbs
more bitter in the mouth and more pleasing to the eye
the kneeling trees splash themselves with water
the air is still and full of sleep
the light goes down
the day drops its petals
High up and all of a sudden there’s the night
the knowing glances
the blinking stars
the signs
over the tops of the roofs
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Too Much Atmosphere
The street sign reveals its mystery
the arm stretched out from the balcony holds a dumbbell
pupils dilate with the last stab of light
the bell sounds low and lower
broken by a cloud
in the garden a tree might fall
a hand gathers branches
and bundles them like a bouquet
the wind’s thousand fingers tap violently against the window pane
the head which appears tilted to the sky
waiting on what might happen
the luminous circles which lid the world’s barrel
have come unglued
and the rising air, hotter than before,
lifts the platform
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Star-String
The sky’s lone key enters the white rocks
an eagle
when the iron blade cuts the wave in two
my hand writes my name on the swept ice
a pilotless ship drifts into sight
the sunbeams fall like a luxury of hair
at the threshold of white morning
and on the fine sand trails in distress
turn in all directions
near the horizon and on the black rocks
where the fish are dying the silent humid darkness
plays its last card
the white side of our hope
in the soft-moving wake of the boat,
following the line connecting the continents
an immense hollow pearl in the blue sleigh bell
noon sounds a metallic echo
all the most avid mouths shut at the same signal
when the path opens and comes alive
with the lantern’s dancing reflection
the path that rises and shines
the secret path filled with echoes
the light of the lantern and the stars
shapes in the seaspray
on the drowned heads, dreamless and without mystery
heads without halos, coming loose from the stars
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Waterfall
In front of the wall, on the clear icy surface, the periscope of
water plumps
and narrows between the rising green waters of the cascade
sometimes dry leaves fall onto the paper screens
covering the yellow windows, the atmosphere,
filled with the sense of the whole countryside
declining towards summer’s end
the air is gay the air is fresh
the sky sits low and brooding
one can count the time it takes from here to there
the mechanism deploys,
up till now so firmly packed at an angle,
and now its gears engage slowly, irresistibly
the eyes of fire clips of animate metal
the heart slung beneath the hammering of moving steel
is a little too flat
all of it moves too easily in the fire-chamber
and in the tree brightening with a diamond’s light
and the jerkiness of artificial joints
a gaslight with a sad expression of surrender wakes up
and looks down upon a pontoon bridge
but even so the men seem more at ease on Mont Blanc