In the middle is our place
In the middle is our place.
We often thought we came from
another census district
but from there weíve been banished.
Sometimes when you open your slanting jaw
and break the otherwise unmoving
we think some reconciliation is possible
ó or at least a pact.
You whip up a storm then
and the waves roll away with lacerated backs
where the rainbow renders its complete repertoire
and as for the drowned
ó no-one bothers to count them.
In the middle where we live there is no tranquility.
have you somewhere else you can show us?
It was a dream
and it was more real than the day
a scream pierced the sky.
It came from the humans
and from the beasts
ó those two species that live
so close to each other.
Then the night passed ill at ease.
Yes butterflies did emerge
here and there
some very beautiful
frantically they sucked each otherís life
and the world then
was like a richly decorated prison
with gilded instruments of torture
ó those taken there
were, happily, hard of hearing.
The dream was more real
than the day which followed.
A Clear And Late Summer Evening
Inside the ash-trees
which the years have scooped into mortuaries
holes of dark light wait.
The night more imprisoned than any time
The stones on the road say
they met a man
going in the direction of the end of his life.
Someone carries a basket of sorrow.
Hereís my life she says
this is what my life came to.
Birds that were no longer birds
died on the branches at the same time as the sunlight
but sat on there.
from The Fish
you swim through the catacombs
and with your fins penetrate stone
then plunge out of sight in the deep water
ó the water scarcely to be heard
murmuring beneath the stone.
you leave the sign
interpreted: the one returning through death.
You live in the sand beds
you live in the wild currents
where the vessels founder.
You are caught
ground to flour, displayed in the frozen food counters.
You carry a hook in your mouth
you carry it like a crozier.
In the disappearing you have your life.
In the returning you have your life.
Rested my hand against the wall
to feel if the brick warmed
when I took it back
my palm had loosened.
The wall said nothing
I stood there with no palm
and no knowledge
but I did understand
that the brick was another brick
than the one that simply gives warmth
and that the heat was another heat.
In a still unfurnished room
thereís a birch leaf in a glass
nothing has yet been used
itís the room of the lovers
and itís very early.
Each morning the knowledge returns
of the prison
what the nights know is always greater
but is already forgotten at dawn.
On the gravestones
the names are weathered away.
Itís late, and itís very early.
The wall I touched
was very large.