Before supper, before the lamps warm the beds and the trees's foliage absorbs the dark and the night's abandoned. In the curtailed space of dusk whole seasons pass by unrecognized. Then the sky's freighted with clouds and air-currents drum at brambles and stumps.
To unearth the reason for a verb
because the truth is it's not time yet
and we don't know whether to rush forwards or take flight.
This language has no innocence
- listen to how speeches break up
as if also here there were a war
a different war but war
to Nathan Zach
These too are war poems
composed while it rages, not far off, not nearby,
seated askew at a table lit by lamps
It's a blessing to be as far away as you are
the most innocent among distant things:
table-niche and apple
Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balcony
the wind transforming the clouds. Beyond the century
in the evenings to come when neither you nor I
will be here, when the years will be branches
Accept this silence: the word caught in the dark of the throat like a stiffened animal, like the stuffed boar that sparkled in the cellar during October storms. Livid and woven with straw, the dry heart, smokeless, yet against the flash of lightning that nailed the door,
to my mother and father
May wind from Bonifacio to Corte, mistral from the Sardinia Strait retreating to Santa Teresa and south of south to Campidano. Star-shaped archipelagoes and godless beauty's fury.
That evil may decompose like the hamster buried in a shoebox in the garden's earth.
That the fright destined for others come to me tonight.
I see her, this woman who for hours stared at the tv
on and now screams at another body in twilight