Autumn suite
I
Bastard in this
light
wordless among
these voices
the dahlias the
gleaming drops
of the rowan
the maize and marrows
calling from the market square
rows of asters and
marigolds
each
with its own cry
oh this silent
smell of potatoes cabbage turnips
homeless homeless
among the lady
apples of naked trees
the fat blister
beetles of fallen leaves
in this richness
so rich in poverty
only you so dumb
on the earth
so empty-handed at
this season the season of thirst
hungering for
supplies travels possession
apple-sweet
melancholy
kernel root
the wriggling pupa
under the eaves
an affront to his
restlessness
enters the day
dazzled
goes shrunken
among mosquitoes
now the sparrows’
bush
stands ablaze
and nothing shall
be his
II
now you sink back
into
an old darkness
impossible recognition
images
you have never seen
are called out along
strangely
secret streets
flee with the leaves
flee
in geese-wedges
find confused the spot
where
some other where you
kissed her first
wanted
her happiness
seek seek seek
but
nothing is understandable
everything is reversed
everything
is absurd and self-evident
the cemetery has not changed
the
melons have the same taste
among all these corridors
not
one even so that is yours
the thread is broken but heavily
you
incline towards a past
(the stones the roots the darkness)
suddenly
you can sigh
without knowing the reason
all
at once you recall
an old death in the family
an
unusual illumination
a mountain bonfire nighttime courage
(the
stones the roots the darkness)
the sole trace of this
the
sole recollection of the leap:
the wedge in the twilight now
above
the woods of reeds
III
there then
the smell of autumn in the living room: green apples
there then
while the sky is saturated with melancholy moisture
the leaves weep
there then out there
the light: a column above the earth’s fatness
there then there then the mouse’s self-comfort
the stubble with dew’s filigree
and the snail’s small ear duct
listening clenched around an echo’s salt
consumptus est the red-fruit jelly
the kiosk’s supply of beer
the lobster we took home from the fishing village at midsummer
the hip-flasks are long since rusty
tinder and birchwood gone up in smoke
the nivea tin empty
our summerland properly assigned
to mould mosquitoes and mice
to resign
close oneself like the snail round an echo
form a membrane as a defence against hoar frost
and eat into a lost salt
there then
– – –
then the room blackens in panic:
ten thousands of bird’s wings
my dream my haste
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