Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The space between our nettles
is where the tide comes in,
sorting and sifting
my ire from yours.
Out of water they blend
so seamless, together,
two hates that stain white
like sea salt.
I listen for the ocean
in the things you’ve touched;
Salt-sick and wind-blind and maddened by thirst,
I pour you from them.
annnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
by Pablo Neruda
There is something dense, united, settled in the depths,
repeating its number, its identical sign.
How it is noted that stones have touched time,
in their refined matter there is an odor of age,
of water brought by the sea, from salt and sleep.
I'm encircled by a single thing, a single movement:
a mineral weight, a honeyed light
cling to the sound of the word "noche":
the tint of wheat, of ivory, of tears,
things of leather, of wood, of wool,
archaic, faded, uniform,
collect around me like walls.
I work quietly, wheeling over myself,
a crow over death, a crow in mourning.
I mediate, isolated in the spread of seasons,
centric, encircled by a silent geometry:
a partial temperature drifts down from the sky,
a distant empire of confused unities
reunites encircling me.