Poetry
from Except for This Unseen Thread
Burying the Corpse
They’re returning late
the old woman puts out a bowl of soup
the task must have been difficult
Why are they late? For what emergency?
They went to bury the sun’s corpse in the mountain
they must be struggling to move their feet
ice lakes crack underneath them
twigs break in their hands
their rifles melt on their backs
in the twilight of snow
the old woman keeps on stirring
the empty bowl
Empty House
The mirror stayed calm
and quiet, as they carried her
to the Friday market
she did not object
when they wanted to sell her,
she was displayed
and the house was emptied of her
Yesterday, they buried a bird in the garden
and a cage became empty
Today they carry the empty cage
with the quiet mirror to the Friday market
the house is emptied of them.
The house has become empty
empty, completely
For so long they lived together
the empty cage and the mirror
Infiltrated Solitude
We have returned to the safe place
we took off the wings of exile
and lay down on our sides
next to the stones
our hearts are food for insects
we look towards the crack
from which the light is pouring down
Our eyes stand still in their sockets
listening attentively
listening to a strange clamor outside
we keep on listening, baffled –
even in this safe place
the strange clamor doesn’t stop?
Wax Bust of an Absent Man
She covers the smile of the disappeared man
with the shadow of her wings
She moves in a circular motion
before the flame, restless
the disappeared man extends his fingers down
into the graveyard of butterflies...
His footprints disappear
before a half-opened door
and the butterfly moves, restless
The Poem of His Death
He writes the poem of his death
he writes the poem of his death every day
he writes everyday a new poem of his death
and whenever he is done with a poem
he expects to have put an ending to his life
he has lived long and tried living out his poems
today he wants to try out the poem of his death
he wrote thousands of lines, but he hasn’t written
the poem of his death
he wrote many poems
but none of them was the poem of his death...
he wrote thousands of lines about flowers
he can capture the beginning of a thing and its ending
but not its cycle
He starts a poem and ends it without caring
for his feelings
or the feelings of his poem
He looks at his finger pointing to the sky,
poetry explodes
from the blue stone in his black ring
He is putting his finger on the white paper
to write: “the blue stone of the black ring
on the white paper, a glowing finger”
Finally, he’s found an ending
for the last poem of his death
