Sunday, 24 January 2010

From 'Logos' by the Dutch poet Rozalie Hirs


Now the middle of the night
dubs me a knight in
a dozen hours become 0
and the sentry gets the word,
I shoot at golden speed
through the wooden bead
in the rose – a mirror-box that lies
in a crimson disguise,
with sword and grail too,
my prince consort, for you,

bearing alive our fire.

We drink from the hands
of the moon, her strands
a string of milk teeth –
the surface a pool gleaming
towards me: Language glides
into our mouths and resides
in the change of the heart,
the wounded senses: eye
for eye, tongue for tongue –
the lung of love. With no lead

the light plumbs death upon death.

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