3 LA POEMA VERA
No sooner does someone say, 'I am this or that,' than desire is strangled.

What we love we hold—
flesh is clumsy but we're not:
every time we're different, better every
time, oh like rain, like muddy puddles
under yellow lights.
Believe in nothing –
be swept over by clouds, birds
swept up, it must be
as if
nothing is empty
only that
the sky opens out
where there's no reason to hope it isn't anything
& call out so clear.
Delicious dear white page, oh reader, what
fibrous blank net can hold us now?
I see a man whose head is made of stone.
I see nothing in the dark.
No one will know.
One experience turns into another
as day starts to dip in &
no one really knows much more. Faint voices
above are the signs, or dark red stains on the wet road where
they made us all. They
bore us into it dumb but so loud.
We slowly fell
crossed over some line.
There can't be any new impediment.
Under the trees a heavy moisture
& sense rises up somewhere else.
It is the forest, the dark one.
We are lonely, & we rest, ignorant that we are given what will nourish us.
We walk unharmed
you know, like we can't be.
I wrote no poem.
It's like that:
these words might save the place, louder
but not until we've forgotten:
this rain, this sudden
appearance
of angels hidden in the light
shining through that dew
too, a loss, a moving to
& in the silence
in half-light
honey oozing, silently within the wood.
Death, it is
best & least, some friendship awakening.
The whole lot resolves to nothing more, but
isn't it? What was in that light itself?
The energies, shifting, are disease:
disease, what is that immeasurable light?
Slowly we are thus consumed;
the broken stones that compose us
compare us
like old banal's dear empty turn.
Please talk of truth or lies or of
loss, of silence, truth.
Forgive? Forgive it nothing, no, mouths
alone, always alone
the places we're on swept off, like
like dirty waves.
What we are brought to is this:
just silence
untranslatability flowing
slowly like flesh
the flowering, green
immense & dumb.
You will have to start again.
It's what we lost
at the very dawn, la luna.
She will come to us tonight.
Things don't fit, follow
they are just lost. We age
not from any devotion, despair
no poem, pattern of it
just it
in the darkness
completing us
again in the night when stars are blind
& your absence shines
in the distance, over the hills.
We rest in this dark
& are open to all & nothing
like a dead baby which
the good result of its completion
will excuse us all
here, at this place
never
again never.