Blue Hour (4 page)

and on the battlefield, our anatomy lessons

and phrases like: vanishing pianos

and she body and promising light she exists

and silence the most mysterious form of affection

and standing in phosphorus rain, the man I have not yet married

and that another will be uttering its first human word

and the glass-winged bats hang in the darkness

and the gun though loud has not discharged

and the house? there. which became what it was because of us

and the marigold the flower of worry

and the shell etching a horizon into our window as it passed

and the trains, the way they come, they tell me it is not the truth but I remember it

and time, speeding as it departs

and we fell into each other laughing the laugh of the newly dead

and we, separated on earth by decades

and what intervened more, war or the passage of time?

and what of those who have made this same journey?

and whispering what could

and
writing,
the guardian of the past

angelica, anne’s lace, antiphon, aria, ash, asylum

another
child filling its mouth with pillow

ants in a city of peony

apparition in a vacant house

appears to feel the soul go forth

apple blossoms and wet wind

approaching the other with empty hands

aria in time of war

armfuls of furze, lupine, cornflower

as a flame is linked to its burning coal

as a mirror changes a face

as a rain, however brief, changes the world

as all afternoon the clouds float west to east, leaf-smoke and lake wind, pumice and plumbago gray, white-storeyed, rain-logged

as any backward look is fictive

as any conflagration or struggle is understood

as any new act inflicts its repetition

as crows mark the fog

as for children, so for the dead

as gloves into a grave

as God withdrawing so as to open an absence

as he appears and reappears in the unknown

as if a flock of geese were following

as if there were no other source of food

as if to say goodbye to his own mind

as if we had only one more hour

as if with the future we could replace the past

as in the childhood of terror and holiness

as light or the retreat of light

as memory, a futile attempt

as more beautiful than it had been because it is lost

as rain before it reaches us

as rain strikes the pails in our tents of wakefulness

as the fence has recorded the wind

as the water in which the corpse has been washed

as those who have returned have said

as though when past and present converge, there is a gap

as thought affects the universe in as yet immeasurable ways

as unexpected rain craters the fields

as when cicadas sing at the cenotaph

ascending to the stone-cool stars

ash manuscript, death aria, hunger fugue

ash sailing ashen wind

at once in this world and the world to come

at the city’s edge the aged cooling towers

at the edge of a forest once for making violins

at the end of their journey, the petals they carry vanish

at the end, where they carry his body

at the point where language stops

at the ticket window, and again in the fruit stalls, a kilo of open melon, in the train without stopping, rain of yellow tickets, broken turnstile

at writing’s border, as if memory were of everyone, forgetting no one, such a cold happiness!

awakening
dans le vrai

back to the blowing-out of birthday candles

back to the crystal ring of a toast

back to the furl of his shirt in a hot wind

back to the razing of every edifice

balefire, balcony, balm, belief, benediction

bamboos bleached by light

bananas hacked clean on the stalk, tangerines pulled down with their leaves

bare trees in fog, umbrellas opening all at once

barefoot by choice in the thin sea, by choice wearing black cotton

bats hanging from the rafters, long polished corridors open

bats singing along walls

because we cannot emerge

beds in the great open-air sickbay

before and behind us

behind the face that speaks to us and to whom we speak

beings who have chosen one another

bell music rolling down the roofs

between here and here

between hidden points in the soul

between hidden points in the soul born from nothing

between saying and said

beyond what one has oneself done

birchbark curling from the birch limbs

birds dropping from flight leaving cries in the air

birds in the clerestory, a tapestry of broken light

biting hard the fear

black corn in the fields, crib smoke, and bones enough to fill a sack

black fingernails, blue hands, lost hair

black storms of dream

black with burnt-up meaning

blessed be
a knowledge that burns thought

blood rose and love

blossoming poplars

blossoming walls, a grave digger’s tunic, a newspaper kiosk in rain

blossoms yet again inside us

blue lobelia rising along the gate

blue-leaved lilies

blue-winged roofs and rooflight

boat scraps washed leeward

bone child in the palm a bird in the heart

bone-clicking applause of the winter trees

bones of the unknown

bones smoothed by water

book of smoke, black soup

born with a map of calamity in her palm

both windows open to whatever may happen

bottled light tossed into the sea with no message

bring forth what is within

bring in your whispering harvest

broken clouds return from the past

broken space, ruined birds, death’s heaven

but in a change of worlds you weren’t you

by someone who
was not
and would not
revient

by the time we were face to face

by which
we
is not the plural of
I

Ça ne veut pas rien dire

caged canaries before each shop as if the street were a mineshaft

canticle, casement, casque, cerement, cinder

capable of a fate other than its own

cathedral bells chiseling the winter air

cathedral of shivering light

Ce voyage, je voulais le refaire

certain of thought but not of what is seen

chandeliers in shellfire, chaotic light

charnel house of the innocents

checkpoints, roadblocks, barricades, points of entry

children shouting goodbye in a hot wind

christmas lights in smoke

cinema
does not describe this moment

city through the filth of a bus window

clouds of lake water, light and speech

clouds of road behind us

clouds returning to the sky from the past

cocoa, whistling pine, ceiba, ylang-ylang, rain

code for key turns

cognac steadying the night

cold fire-pit

cold stalks of daylily

come, love, through burning

composed of light

converging on my own life

cordite wind, one’s first cordite

corn black in the fields, crib smoke, bones, a rib cage

corrugated fields, sheep on the bare fields of drought

cotton mats spread on the floors of classrooms

countries erased from their maps

cratered memory cratered field

crows took rye scraps from her hands

curtains of rain opening

dark, borne within us

dead woman giving birth to rats

dear Françoise of bravery under fire

death is not the conclusion of earthly life

death is the descent of the one called

décryptage

destroys what it briefly illuminates

detritus reaching through a window washed away by wind

difference which she is not to speak

digging a hole in the floor for no apparent reason

disquiet and the book of disquiet

dissolved into the yet-again

distance measured in space or time

do we
interpret
the words before we obey the order?

doors opening, stones humming the foretold

dovecote, drum, dust

doves on the gray limbs of winter poplar

down a desert road aerially strafed

drawings doomed to be destroyed by bullets

dreaming nouns remembered until a window

dressed in their shrouds

drinking from cupped hands

dwelling in apartness

each a ring of soot

each day breaking along the cordillera, then broken

each page a window intact until touched

early summer’s green plums

earth singing in her magma chambers

easter lilies opening in

elegiac time

empty windows dipped in milk

enigma, escritoire, estuary

enough seen. enough had. enough

even if by forgetting

even if he is thousands of miles away or dead

even the trembling of souls turning into light

every line in his face the river of a single year

except to be gentle with one who loved you mistakenly and very much

expectation, the presence of the not-yet-exiled from itself

filled with lifelong gratitude

fire of human becoming

fired from the tip of the only possible

fireflies above the graves, time collapsing, your name which should not have been in stone in stone

firing into the air five nights in the shelter

firmament, fissure, flare stars, frottage

flags opening in wind

flatbread like a stack of plates on his arm

flocks of geese marching in formation down a dust road

flowering trees: trumpet, bottlebrush, cassia, frangipani, flame, sea grape

flowers rotting on mounds: air plant, allamanda, amaryllis, spider lily, bougainvillea, shellflower, hibiscus, ashanti blood, trumpet vines, oleander

for the rest of your life, search for them

for the words that would not come

forward to a rope from his arm to the post

forward to a wedding-cake knife in our hands

forward to the blindfold

forward to the list of demands

fountains of dust rising out of the hills

fragments from the Second Brandenburg

fresh wind in the linens

from a gloved hand a flaming bottle

from chance to chance, event to event

from earth to satellite, event to event

from our last train ride through the ricefields

from the cathedral comes
Kyrie

garbage fires along the picket lines

gasoline coupons and rations, an event no longer remote

Georg leaning against the winter pine eating a sparrow

ghost hands appearing in windows, rubbing them clear

ghost swift, grisaille, guardian spirit

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

God withdrawn from the world

gourds, relief sacks loaded into trucks, poles, rags, tents

graves marked with scrap iron, a world in her dead eye

grief of leave-taking

ground fog rising from a graveyard

had gathered to die

had it changed?

had undergone subtle and perilous shiftings

half-tracks and yellow-eyed transports, and behind them a long road

happens when you say yes

happiness without fulfillment

having made herself stand she was at rest

hayloft, hillock, hoarfrost, hush

he is from exile, which is in all of them

he listened to Schubert,
Tosca

he saw nothing of what was to come

he told her how, in those years

he, though alive, was no longer

her amnesia an approach to understanding her life

her face the war years

her hair a banner of rain

her hands blue in the well

her wet skirt wrapping her legs

hills thinning at the world’s edge

his absence fills with passing clouds, the script of birds, and schoolchildren’s voices

his ashen hands having passed through the window of his truck

his can of dark tobacco, his yellow finch in a cage

his footsteps disappearing as he walked

his grave strewn with slipper flowers and sardine cans

his hands, detritus reaching through a window washed away

his words sparkling in the raw air

history branded with the mark of uncertainty

history decaying

history decaying into images

horse clearing an obstacle

horses, poppies, trees with trunks like sycamores and leaves like maples

hot, the hurry of stars

hour of no matins

house of being

how abandoned how left behind

how better to account for my life

how did this happen? how it always happens.

how it reads its past

how secretly you died for years, on behalf of all who wished for themselves a private death

how the soul becomes an inhabitant of flesh

I am alone, so there are four of us

I am here, blowing into my hands, you are in the other coffin

I can’t possibly get away,
she said

I lit a taper in the Cathédrale St-Just, a two-franc candle, birds flying in the dome

I remember standing next to his bed

I see myself in their brass coat-buttons but not in their eyes

I stand on the commode for a glimpse of it

I tried once. it was just before the war, and she had no time for me.
I can’t possibly get away

I was to bring him music for the left hand