dreaming nouns remembered until a window
dressed in their shrouds
drinking from cupped hands
dwelling in apartness
each a ring of soot
each day breaking along the cordillera, then broken
each page a window intact until touched
early summer’s green plums
earth singing in her magma chambers
easter lilies opening in
elegiac time
empty windows dipped in milk
enigma, escritoire, estuary
enough seen. enough had. enough
even if by forgetting
even if he is thousands of miles away or dead
even the trembling of souls turning into light
every line in his face the river of a single year
except to be gentle with one who loved you mistakenly and very much
expectation, the presence of the not-yet-exiled from itself
filled with lifelong gratitude
fire of human becoming
fired from the tip of the only possible
fireflies above the graves, time collapsing, your name which should not have been in stone in stone
firing into the air five nights in the shelter
firmament, fissure, flare stars, frottage
flags opening in wind
flatbread like a stack of plates on his arm
flocks of geese marching in formation down a dust road
flowering trees: trumpet, bottlebrush, cassia, frangipani, flame, sea grape
flowers rotting on mounds: air plant, allamanda, amaryllis, spider lily, bougainvillea, shellflower, hibiscus, ashanti blood, trumpet vines, oleander
for the rest of your life, search for them
for the words that would not come
forward to a rope from his arm to the post
forward to a wedding-cake knife in our hands
forward to the blindfold
forward to the list of demands
fountains of dust rising out of the hills
fragments from the Second Brandenburg
fresh wind in the linens
from a gloved hand a flaming bottle
from chance to chance, event to event
from earth to satellite, event to event
from our last train ride through the ricefields
from the cathedral comes Kyrie
garbage fires along the picket lines
gasoline coupons and rations, an event no longer remote
Georg leaning against the winter pine eating a sparrow
ghost hands appearing in windows, rubbing them clear
ghost swift, grisaille, guardian spirit
God not a being but a force, and humans, the probative tip of that becoming
God withdrawn from the world
gourds, relief sacks loaded into trucks, poles, rags, tents
graves marked with scrap iron, a world in her dead eye
grief of leave-taking
ground fog rising from a graveyard
had gathered to die
had it changed?
had undergone subtle and perilous shiftings
half-tracks and yellow-eyed transports, and behind them a long road
happens when you say yes
happiness without fulfillment
having made herself stand she was at rest
hayloft, hillock, hoarfrost, hush
he is from exile, which is in all of them
he listened to Schubert, Tosca
he saw nothing of what was to come
he told her how, in those years
he, though alive, was no longer
her amnesia an approach to understanding her life
her face the war years
her hair a banner of rain
her hands blue in the well
her wet skirt wrapping her legs
hills thinning at the world’s edge
his absence fills with passing clouds, the script of birds, and schoolchildren’s voices
his ashen hands having passed through the window of his truck
his can of dark tobacco, his yellow finch in a cage
his footsteps disappearing as he walked
his grave strewn with slipper flowers and sardine cans
his hands, detritus reaching through a window washed away
his words sparkling in the raw air
history branded with the mark of uncertainty
history decaying
history decaying into images
horse clearing an obstacle
horses, poppies, trees with trunks like sycamores and leaves like maples
hot, the hurry of stars
hour of no matins
house of being
how abandoned how left behind
how better to account for my life
how did this happen? how it always happens.
how it reads its past
how secretly you died for years, on behalf of all who wished for themselves a private death
how the soul becomes an inhabitant of flesh
I am alone, so there are four of us
I am here, blowing into my hands, you are in the other coffin
I can’t possibly get away, she said
I lit a taper in the Cathédrale St-Just, a two-franc candle, birds flying in the dome
I remember standing next to his bed
I see myself in their brass coat-buttons but not in their eyes
I stand on the commode for a glimpse of it
I tried once. it was just before the war, and she had no time for me. I can’t possibly get away
I was to bring him music for the left hand
idam agnaye, na mama
idam agnaye, na mama (this is for the fire, not for me)
if he exists to another, that is need
if rope were writing he would have hanged himself
if you ask him what happened he will tell you
if you bring forth what is within you
in a bowl polished by the morning light
in a village where the women know how to piss standing up
in carceral silence
in glimpses, broken messages, cryptic signs
in his address book, a pressed poppy chosen from his mother’s poppy bed
in his coat, a small cage of canaries
in his hand a clod of himself to wipe on the walls
in memory: the music of an open spigot
in reverse until you were floating in a flat green boat
in solitary reverie we can tell ourselves everything
in stone is written in stone
in the bardo of becoming
in the black daybreak, passing through
in the casket window, a face
in the cellar, three crates: rifles, gold & cognac
in the cesium fields
in the chaotic light in the coal-smoked heavens
in the cities of what can be said
in the country of advanced years
in the ecstasy of standing outside oneself
in the fact of parting
in the garden: heliotrope, phlox, rose trees, trellised roses, blue torenia, hibiscus, blue lobelia, lichen, a bamboo grove
in the garden in winter with my son
in the mathematical language of a time to come
in the morning, a white shirt on the line waving
in the night photograph: electric cities, burning forests
in the pole-and-rag tents
in the still-bandaged pines
in the summer, weeds took over the city: horse weeds known as railway weeds grew taller than people
in the surround of that word
in the time after
in the tin lamp’s punched light
in the toy store, a parcel of toys explodes
in the white infinity of mist
in the window a veil of winter
in their radiance
a tub of dry milk
in this camp, how many refugees
in this the child’s blue hour
in thought, where they were lost
incapable of imagining annihilation
inhabiting a body to be abolished
inter alia, inter nos
intercessor
into a duration deep within her
into the world, further illuminated by thought
iris, illuminant
is there anything else?
it appears to be an elegy, put into the mouth of a corpse
it became what it was because of us—in that sense loved
it is as if space were touching itself through us
it is more ominous than any oblivion, to see the world as it is
it is not possible to find you in death’s heaven
it is not raining in the catacombs
it is not you who will speak
it is the during of the world
it is the morning of the body’s empty soul
it is worse than memory
it ruins time, the chiasmus of hope
it was all over
it was all there, written in stone, a record of munitions
it was cinema
it was gruel refused: blue wedges of bread, maggot soup, rice drippings
it was just before the second war, and she had no time for me
it was raining in the catacombs
it was the first time in my life I tasted fish
it was the name of a time, and over there, a place
it was the simplest way to know one another
J’ai rêvé tellement fort de toi
J’ai tellement marché tellement parlé
journey of two thousand kilometers
journey that will have no end
keeping a record of oneself
keepsake, knell, Kyrie
knowing oneself from within
l’heure bleue, hour of doorsteps lit by milk
le musée hypothétique
lace patterned after frost flowers
language from chance to chance
languid at the edge of the sea
lays itself open to immensity
leaf-cutter ants bearing yellow trumpet flowers along the road
left everything left all usual worlds behind
library, lilac, linens, litany
lifting the wounded
light and the reverse of light
light impaled on the peaks
light issuing from the wind’s open wounds
light mottling the forest floor, crows leaving one limb for another
light of cinder blocks, meal trays
light of inexhaustible light
lighted paper sacks sent downriver to console
like the handkerchief road
like the whispering in a convent garden
like tomb flowers, the ossuary’s skull works
lilac and globeflower, clouds islanding the tilled fields
linked as flame to burning coal, as one candle lighted from another
listening to the stove mice and chimney swallows
little rain holes where the bullets went, rains crater the field, raising each a ring of soot, striking the catch pails and stabbing the tarpaulin.
we live in fog tents, awake, whispering what could once be written on a sliver of rice
lost in paper, shellfire
lupine wind, lingering daylight
lute music written for severed hands
manuscripts in the cold part of the house
matchbooks flaring in a blank window
matinal, mirage, mosaic
meaning did not survive that loss of sequence
memory does not interfere
memory the presence of the no-more
metal soup pots hung to dry, crazed porcelain basins
mirrors, vials, furnaces
misprision of moments lifted from their concealment
moments of rain ascend in the manner of smoke
more ominous than any oblivion
mortar smoke mistaken for an orchard of flowering pears
mud from the bowels of the city
mud from the disheveled night
music loosening floor tiles, a moon washed in earthly light, the dawn sirens calling men to the mines
music of the hurrying fountains
must release the dead from bondage
must rise from the dead while we live
my dear, I think yes
my father crossed the field and stood
my hair a cold flag of rain
my hands coated with tomb dust
my mother’s hand broken by a fierce wind
my own: I was utterly there. and when I came back I was still there
naked beneath our names, thrown up by the wit-lost
near dawn, near the river wasn’t it? if one of us
near the lake, where the fireweed was
neither a soul nor a body
neither for us nor near itself
never repeating itself
nevertheless, noumenon, november
new pasts, whole aeons are invented
night shift in the home for convalescents
nightshirt, razor strop, boot-heel
night-voiced viola
no breath of God, no words, and no possibility of restoration
no content may be secured from them
no one prayer resembling another
not a house but a stagnant hour
not blood, flesh and bread but an earthly ecstasy
not isolation but a lack of solitude
not only the flow of thoughts, but their arrest
not wishing to know anything more about oneself
nothing as it was
nothing other than mind
nothing was exiled from itself
now and again like a voice grown suddenly tired
now on the plane in a white-out
objects [heavenly bodies] as they were in the past
oder nicht
oil soap, orchard, ossuary
old books snowing from our hands
older than glass, younger than music
on each tip of grass a wet jewel
on her hand, a moment of ring-light
on lave les corps, on les prépare pour l’ensevelissement
on the blanket then, government issue
on the fifty-fourth day, loss of sight and hearing
on the platform between trains, holding a bottle
on the shortwave, the high whine of the world’s signal
one for the other
one sees and is seen
one sees and is seen approaching the other with empty hands
one stands in line for butter
only the walls that did not face the blast remained white
open shell of heaven
or a failed letter
or that she would admonish me for the years of my silence
or when it first occurred to them to have graves with markers
our atelier of passing trains, citronella smoke, a veiled bed
our hymnic song against death
our most secret selves
past and present sliding into each other
pear trees espaliered along the walls
pen and ink across the boundaries
pink snow downwind of the test site
pinning their intentions to a saint’s dress
pitch smoke chalks the sky over the roof
poppy seed, portal, portrait, prayerbook
present though most often invisible
question after question
quiescent, quiet, quinine, quivering
rain falling into their open eyes
rain in the catacombs
raising each a ring of soot
redemption not an accounting or a debt
refugee, relic, reverie
relief sacks loaded into trucks
relief tents until the horizon
remaining in fear of death but remaining
responsible beyond our intentions
resting language or language under surveillance
reverses itself as we read it
riddles the statues of martyrs and turns
rinses limbs then craters the field
rinses limbs then
rises as wet smoke
rising in bodily light
roads rivered with waste and a tea-colored rain
sacks of soy and manioc, dry milk, rice
sanctuary, sea glass, sorrow
scoop of earth: slivers of femur, metacarpals
searching for something one knows will not be found
set in language and deserted by God
she heard no one’s footsteps, then nothing
she holds lilacs to her face
she meets a man on the mule-steps who has been dead for months
she pulled the lilacs to herself
she puts the rice pot down in the snow
she sees nothing of what is to come
she went with him willingly and without knowing where she was, she saw the country very much as she would have had she walked through a film about herself
she within me
she would never again wander too far into the past
sheltering in the open
shore birds, smoke, the ferris wheel turning
signature by signature in triplicate, rice and dry milk
since last night on the bridge
six hours under fire along the road
six inches from my belly
sixteen clicks after the flag of fire
slow questioners, there was no place in the world for them
smacking the hands of children who miswrote
small talk like white smoke from kindling
snow clicking as it falls into itself, hushed, a little smoke crawling from a stovepipe, following the wind or rising straight, the village so quiet that one can hear the iced branches
snow in the shadow folds, impasto, gouache
snow on the shoulders of the statuary
so as not to take a single word into my mouth
so as to be taken for refugees
so emptiness cannot harm emptiness
so it appears as if it were what we wanted
so that the dead climb up out of the river to blacken its banks
so that the other comes back
so this is how the past begins—
so we walked, pretending our empty suitcases burdened us
some dance, one holds a dove aloft
some flaw in the message itself
some were burned with cigarettes, some doused with turpentine. every night they poured turpentine through their hair and slept like that, so as to keep the leeches from giving them head wounds
some with wicker baskets, others with gathered flax, some with children in their arms, others with brooms, some dance, others hold aloft a dove someone will be pouring milk while another perishes