Saturday, July 30, 2011

tearing torn

she tore her other lives from the sunlight

lives she won’t taste now
leaves from a book or pages of breath

and let them flutter from her fingertips
or cupped their darkness between her palms

as if trying to warm a broken moth
struggling for a moment her eyes lowered

she wondered at her terror
terrified by her joy


Monday, July 18, 2011



Maybe the high clouds
will be there before me?

As if arrival
were already true in the departure,

I close this door
and think your pulse beats in my wrists.

What does distance matter now?


Wednesday, July 13, 2011

setting sun

Quelques vieux bâtiments et les champs en friche

Comme si le soleil
était l’ombre d’un abîme
qui approfondirait
l’horizon en nous,

l’après-midi mourant
trempe les murs
d’une clarté de cuivre.
Le lierre miroite et pense

quand une brise
dans le piège de vignes
cherche des mots
comme des tessons de verre.

S’envolant d’un toit,
un corbeau rauque
d’un seul trait d’aile
peint le retour de nos noms

dans la bouche de la terre.

A few old buildings among the fallow fields

As if the sun were
the shadow of an abyss
that would deepen
the horizon in us,

this dying afternoon
soaks the walls
in coppery light.
The ivy glimmers and thinks

when a breeze in the trap
of vines seeks words
like shards of glass.
Flying from a roof,

a hoarse crow
in a single wingbeat
paints our names’ return
to the mouth of the earth

Monday, July 11, 2011