Sand of Sailors
Come, yes in the afternoon. No, not later. You know, January afternoons have a tendency to withdraw fast. Soon it's getting colder. The stove wishes each visitor a welcome though this wish does not depend on a perspective openly related to us.
Evening, during a beach walk we meet the privacy of single data and another mind's development
he bee that stung left
we've stepped down
the flux of rose
soft robin breast
I hesitate to call it
breath of reflections
could green be tourmaline
drops tested manifold?
moist weight in dances
feels a shift.
Almost dark, my friend, a female one-hand catamaran sailor, points to what she calls "her face in dunes". The object wants to be visualized but fears three dimensional outlooks. A spiral of energies released is pushing toward complimentary participation even if visible light is absent. What can only be explored in total darkness seems to include the power of the mystical. By not naming it conventionally, we enjoy the vibration of something known but free of any conclusion that could be a limiting influence, if not damage to the unknown. Here, behind the cliff-house, old cypress trees reserve the security nest-builders are seeking. Autobiographical linked to weather conditions, bedded into more than what soil alone can establish, sounds go astray
an owl cries we change
sides in the whirlpool.
It seems that a line drawn by an artist refers to a dialogue. It could be a life-long impatience kept in a hand's movement. Francis Bacon's colors are shaped like dialogues, once observed, experienced in winding bodies of his friends. Those dialogues can be read by us, the visitors of a gallery.
Dialogues seem to happen between objects all by themselves. Then men may participate. In a phase of interference the verisimilitude of a relationship proves itself.
Powwow. The bow-hunter's tendon may be tuned for a low d before the arrow wants a finger to let go merging into contact with a deer. Then, a new dialogue occurs, linking the physical influence of digesting venison with the spiritual experience.
think how fast
will be our tribe.
The Meantime as Evidence
Perseverance in open doors. None surrenders,
the air occupies slit and splinter. A transfer of the garden's
aspen-green to a darker inside is halted. Bones narrowed,
the weight of assembled red particles press against the wall.
Outside, particularly engaged fragments hold still;
they kindly presume and assimilate a reader waiting
for an enjoyable inquietude; it's like before a stranger
calls us for the first time by our first name.
A little indulging, the writers of letters borrow
into the listener's limited patience and report this:
- Summer of suffocation, Michelle. Thoughts with swallows
crossing winged, oracular. Wanting the moth in me
wandering around all night. Scheme of its powder whitens
what you recall the softest in between. You -
the meantime as evidence. No disparagement, no
impunity, but a fever on its request for oscillation.
- Nora, not from a design Lagerfeld mentioned. Discernment,
disavowal? I think I suffer a repulse against my close
attachment to inherited tissues: skin, the one I wear
moistens hair, grows a flower's smell, ordered or not.
I disbanded the modifier, did away with moribund
requirements. I share your longing for new inflections.
The exchange of thoughts between N. and M. can be a menace
without negotiator or could be interpreted as the nuns moaning
in a menagerie of like-minded mammals
What, finally, is deprived, what is entrusted
to become compulsory? Organ by organ reminds
that relocating one heart's imprints needs new instructions.
Handling the right sizes, we defrost abalone. Sharing boundaries,
sea-colors break. We wish to learn more about mother of pearls.
As if hesitation can be part of an inactivity, those salt-masked
toys flare up on their own purpose. Halves, half persuaded.
Pretending cherries to be the flesh of angry tongues.
Here is the inflammation of a fruit tree's blind eye.
Beacon-bill, odd numbers lapping out of Oriental mouths.
Silk may crumble for seven times; the fifth fault is a tight one.
Tired of a caravan trip, there's nocturnal rheumatism.
The camels need a rest under warming stars.
At Samarkand, fatigue unknown. The route of exchange
clings to the silence of opium, only the mind ever singing.
Hosted in smoke, back-dreaming about a poppy field,
black pollen sways on and behind the line - a Chinese horizon.
Here it addresses itself to the sun, to the sun's red.
Beyond calculations, even the full moon reddens.
Quietly the camel's front legs break in a well -
As it happens, there is no water.
Those Wooden Shoes
traveling. At first we're offered strolling
lazily over the cobblestones at Gouda's market.
Hendrikje, as she has had it in her apron before,
lures us to a handful of delight in a pound of her
black cherries. June lets her meet many by chance;
but it wouldn't be sweet success or perhaps less
if the juice in such fruits' flesh could be miscalculated.
No tongue in waiting that isn't persistently eager.
The next joy, before low windows,
can't be neglected. Here the town's lace curtains
are offering material for the shy, for the lovers'
behavior at eleven o'clock, well eleven-thirty.
Bells are falling straight into sound
following a swing of their own inclination.
Late looks between girls are taking
advantage of the solid gray in Dutch fog.
It's like a sisterly give-away of blue shades
along tulips in rows. And those wooden shoes?
To their carved proportion wet soil gives
in to a negative imprint. A less imagined occurs
when simultaneously working fins in deep waters
make a move toward a little smaller fish.
Sand-surfing. As in oscillations drifting
barely engaged, we try to bring over the two of us
just for as long as it takes being astonished about
our seemingly disproportionate floating.
The Electricity on this front door bell
automatically alerted, photographs each visitor
greets the guest accordingly to checks done in 1 sec
answers with a female voice in G minor or D major
parallel to the lock. A second photograph registers
reactions on face hand and feet. It is drizzling
on the coast, the sun veiled. A dolphin leaps for better
orientation in an ocean filled with enemies and friends.
Is the harvester welcome, are the swells well advised
to greet the intruder? The voluptuous vendor counts
its bubbles - pshshsht – is there negotiable sky’s blue?
Reuniting particles of light and dark matter, gloss
gleaming over uncovered entries
a blanket’s dream loitering time with burn-outs
The weight of night releases itself
shy, migratory, artless.
A morning of no spider-juice
running on overtime – five thirty.
East still carries a horizontal
red wound left from a fading fog bank.
Acceptance of smiles when we slice
into the crust of our breakfast bread.
The expression on her teeth signals
a certain white like corn home in rows.
Our window-front, Dutch screened
adjoining a spin of minds, two axes.
On a creek as we go by so tender
trout-lovers are aware of teaming up
with spangled spawn, its shine embodies
foam on forked streams’ rapids.
A couple squeezes black berries.
Sudden permit, a sliding promise
checking out a slow affection
both tongues still undecided
not yet focused
eyes into one another’s
return from exile
A section encircled, drifting,
the fetus a swimmer. Do both
have one shore in mind? They seem to fetch up,
water is the matter for them, even condensed.
There seems intolerance acquired.
Along that beach no easy walking.
Soft disagreements, rain-bridged. Rain to be
a mother's self since her body rises.
Then this accountable long view, longer
when the wind plays her wide brim,
the peacock feather
greets the nurse at the delivery station.
Convulsions. More attentiveness?
Nothing really entitled. Little differences
in the way she always looks; but something
is to settle into a peculiar satisfaction
like in an act of attending an anonymous birth.
No exigency. Nearly a plan to get infected;
just not impeccable, immune? Motives in search,
introduced through a relaxing Ninety-nine degrees F.
Each gradation pronounces the warmth of its meaning.
Water and growth for nine months. Now swellings
in a row of groaning, slenderly furnished.
Fluids pleasing their own inventiveness.
your veil gives south
on red hinges
eyes to look
no rather east
barely lit /the space a ship of shades / subject to choosing / one with
one without / a lip not talked to
one boy calling
with his sister's name
by the sea
half past six
out of hands
access to those eyes
saying it shall be
the moon turns
walks against me
home half split / fluids / if they wanted to / streaming / shy / the mouth
he seize of an open question / before challenged / before
she remarks she sea lays low
the air becomes paper acres
guess I ride the lines
off the moment's library
she reads her shadow
I play the lake
one fish insists to stay
on its bottom
you and I haven't / (the heart an exception) / heard that silence
two fingers on this glass
trace higher frequencies
Tiberon Views San Francisco
as if doubt is
not in residence
patterns the window
stone-fingers between hospitals
a blue dresses
the beggar's hand
in front of clicking shoes
the fog moving
why not try again
talk with no direction
first little then more
the motel tub's ultramarine
Edges Not Kept
A dream enters the studio. It donates its own biography
alerting an empty canvas not yet changed into a painting.
As it learns to awaken separately from the artist
it holds the brush closest to a spot that likes sparrows
flying off, leaving only the color mauve
on a property in a state of early information.
Several days I didn't see her
inside a composition
on both ends explanations
she wouldn't mention this
contact the light
give away heat is involved
a word occurs
as in a fuse
one is the accent of the other
evenly we share
leaves shifting structures
some are entangled
we try to free them
Seemingly a second way of walking together, the instance
dilates its edges. Measurements keep a wet gloss out of her
mental Atlas. Still a moist menacing port: the oily portrait.
Occurring spread, whimsically and weapon-like, the bewildered
gaze reverted, slightly tangential: her and the painter's look at a third.
Copyright © Werner Reichhold 1998. Return to the beginning of Cybertry IV .
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