It was you who showed me this
business. For you I will show
slight matters of drizzling rain,
silver rims and wheels of rain.
Some hundred of years ago
you floated in a river. Weeds
commemorate this spot, as cheese
opens on a table, shot with light.
There is still something I have to do, without hands
or the carriage of my hands. The business of dying
cannot be shown
The material of this theme cannot equip me.
Two bassoons, oboes and horns undress.
Two bassoons, oboes and horns undress
the night. Birds and pianos call up
a strange cinema. It is not certain
which version of your life came first,
the business of dying is brief though,
a statement riddled by unsaid sound.
Two bassoons, oboes and horns undress
the night, whose collar is stern and unbrushed.
APRIL 2009