Whatever cloud—however charged—
& loud with yellow fingers
was in your brain. There were two clouds.
Consciousness
not yet struck by an I
wants to know, wants upon waking
a face, something to face,
a window & reflection's window
into spruce trees, snow-covered
or green, forever green as long
as a red cardinal, descending
the way birds descend
in trees, limb by limb
& lightly, a controlled fall
upon waking—it was raining. Lovingly
no one's hands, imaginary, undressed you
but your own, & the limbs
mirrored knew what you knew:
they belong only to the genderlessness
of birds, how each puts on one side
of the same air & hinges upwards. I
can't even say I am, when I am,
with you, since reading
begins in gaze & a gaze never
your own in a book, its pages.
One page is never turned
but over. There were two pages.
Syllable a word in you a self
with three syllables: wordlessly,
surrender. A red dot. A low harm
in the trees. A falling art
or the art of following without need
of knowing what may, given distance,
break into wakefulness, its endless addresses
to which we, reading, barely return.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem