evenings, again

AGAIN TRULY / METAPHYSICALLY He dreamed the sighs of time and mourned the passing of his muse. He gave himself to her, but she left, lost somewhere, never passing by again, even when, beyond time, he understood: “She—freedom—had been a burden too…” He dreamed the rain—September, washing away summer’s fever, and sought solace in its drops, in astringent, cooling mornings which, having failed to find themselves, spilled out their innocent memories. He dreamed the passion of autumn, its last bright madness, and flowed with night into the brown humility of leaves. Growing quiet, abandoned to fate, they turned to shadows in the soil. He loved… His soul had wanted it that way. He sighed to recognise himself, yet went on… it there… and he on this side… He dreamed… that somewhere he existed…

His gaze reached beyond the hill and there he saw “him.” He walked with him, sat awhile with him …and returned to himself.

Chantlike Darknesses. Alone. Traces. ah… They recede and laugh before they merge memory with rain. It drizzles. When did you know? When did your breath stop and awaken? f e l l s i l e n t.

She, alone. Dream dreamed itself— Tender, dreaming, smiling within you. It dreamed itself— Quiet, and will curl within you. It dreamed itself— Eternal, and will wait within you. For you to wake, for it to wake— to-dawn inside you. He, alone.

She was gone and he stared without eyes. She was gone and he wondered without a why. She was gone and he prayed without a face. She was gone and he dissolved without a soul. * * * To glimpse her? To ask her? To have her… To kill her— Spring!

“Why should it exist when it might not…” after Heidegger The bird— fans the wind, feeds chance, deceives spring. The fish swallows the ocean, feeds silence, calls out to the shore. The shadow rocks the body, feeds memory, binds faith with a vow. Life—a bird, having fed on fish, hatched its only egg in the shadow of the cast net.

The Raven Who Thought He Was a Rodent He looked, narrowed his eyes and swiftly darted downward, along the road, strode boldly and seized the large walnut to carry it to her. The one and only, beautiful, unrepeatable, kindred soul (a squirrel). He flew, to catch sight of her from above. Spread his black wings to embrace her… (the raven).

MUSE Let it be. Let it engender your idea of an idea… A tremor Longing Despair Let it engender destruction Your idea of the idea of love… Let the muse be around the corner from your despair.

THE STORY If only it could draw a deep breath, breathe freely, be free. (the story) Locked (the story) inside him, his life stripped away the reality of the dear illusion. It took away the idea, meanings were lost and… it lay down beside the new meaning. (the story)

So much has passed— still, it rains. So much has passed— —rivers… So close— still, it rains. So close— —held within… So quietly beneath the drops of rain. So quietly— time flows in, unceasing, weeping. So much has passed and continued through me, sank deep, yet the rain never ceased…

I remembered the day… when you turned and vanished from my sight, I braided you into my hair— BLACK, PITCH-DARK, LONG. Spring and Autumn I combed it; Summer and Winter I cut it. when you turned and I met your eyes, no trace of you remained in my hair— WHITE, SILKEN, THIN. I remembered the night…

This is merely a conclusion—“Poetry is sculpture in motion.” Could Your presence be proof that You do not exist? You sat down on the threshold of his absence. You waited for a meeting, in longing and hope. You fell quiet— Heard soft footsteps around the corner and your heart began to pound… You ran and hoped, and dared not ask. He slipped away, moved away from his own longing— He… sat down on the threshold of your absence. Around the corner a tremor, a sigh… Shadows… seated on the threshold of an illusion…

Exile… And I want to scream, but I hold myself back… (I cannot) I stand facing myself and there is no otherness for which to die… How could there be a greater emptiness than the absence of a reason? * * * I am sinking, as though nothing matters… I am sinking, speaking to myself… I am sinking, and the bottom is far away. Am I sinking or floating? Meaning has withdrawn. I awaken. I warm myself with my thoughts. It is oppressive and I do not dare to surface from myself… P.S. Gravity is the problem!

I love You in an impossible way, like fingers spread wide— my thoughts make You mine, frozen in fear— to press You close or let You slip between them. And impossibly— I unravel You with eyes fixed on empty distance. To seize the words— so blind, to spill their colours beside the poems— mute. In an impossible way I love You…