WEBVTT

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And in the dream, Ce
voyage, je voulais

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le refaire, and in the villages,
laundry hanging for months.

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And in their eyes, the
years taken from them.

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And it is certain someone will
be at that very moment pouring

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milk.

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And it is supposed
that we are describing

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the world and its corresponding
moment in the past

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as if with the future we
could replace the past,

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as in the childhood of
terror and holiness,

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as though went past
and present converge,

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there is a gap as thought
affects the universe in as yet

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immeasurable ways.

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Between here and here, between
hidden points in the soul,

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between hidden points in
the soul born of nothing,

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between saying and said,
beyond what one has oneself

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done, both windows open
to whatever may happen,

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bottled light tossed into
the sea with no message.

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Death is not the
conclusion of earthly life.

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Death is the descent
of the one called.

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Down a desert road
aerially strafed,

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drawings doomed to be
destroyed by bullets,

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dreaming nouns remembered
until a window,

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drinking from cupped
hands, dwelling

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in apartness, ghost hands
appearing in windows,

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rubbing them clear, ghost swift,
grisaille, guardian spirit.

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God not a being but a force,
and humans, the probative tip

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of that becoming.

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History decaying into images
in the mathematical language

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of a time to come.

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It is as if space were
touching itself through us.

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Linked as flame to
burning coal as one candle

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lighted from another, memory,
the presence of the no more.

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Resting language or
language under surveillance

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reverses itself as
we read it, searching

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for something one knows will
not be found set in language

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and deserted by God.

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The danger of premature
good conscience.

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The dreams are a coffin with
an open window, the dreams

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of a mind in the grave.

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The flautist's breath
in a stairwell,

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the flumes of white
phosphorus marking the city,

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the fragility of social orders,
the immigrant disappearing

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into a new language,
the informant's diary

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of his whereabouts, the
little notebook of poems

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in the pocket of a corpse.

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The plummet of a star
from its darkness,

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the silence of a new language,
the soft houses of heaven.

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The soul weighs 26
grams and is migratory

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like the birds, the soul
enamored of greatness,

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the soul with its
sense of destination,

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the soul exiled, a
stranger to earth,

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the tomb into which we escape.

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