Go back

Your Life Refracts Me Like An Enigma

Like a translucent mirror
among shadows, the deep backwater lies open; the inverse
to this thirst which
I drink, which I touch like a sphere, inextricable,
beneath the liquid flash. Voice

--From between the dance and the vesperal ardour
The most delicate song Between the green of stupor, of pleasure-- What it is
that incinerates in the high amplitudes
vividly combines. What makes it quiver
The wind

and the superlative fleece in the strings of the Aeolian harp.
The crystalline eucalyptus. Sap
in which the calm
and the disposition of water is
enciphered

What I drink in, what I apprehend like a reflection of that
          impregnable contact; the clarity
of its rootedness in the night, of its vault.

Full, profound consonance above the forests like a roar.
In the fluid hollow of the snail; against the leaded crystal
--They make music

the ebony flagstone
before the fire that reflects the dragging the inflamed ululate
in the circular
niches of song, the peril-- The talisman sensed under those thermal springs,

          within that light--
Like a flame within
birch forests, gentle multitudes. The atemporal
between their lit bodies. The sound
they plant (--The children trace its liquid howl
in the burning like a vegetal spectre)
Between the temporal vessels The spring:

What quivers there.
--The blaze drains the night, in their submerged roots-- Its fluid

roundness,
its presence-- In what I drink, what I touch