VI.
I sense the tray from behind
heels nail my ventricles
drops fall on the plumbago.
Onnodig. Yet faced
with the exact majesty of the clear
what is necessary?
I apologized placing a body
in between
like ironed paper, uncreased
dressed fot the occasion,
poasted it kindles
de paragrafen van de wind.
I sense the tray from behind
my shoulders as it is the only trail
I sense the teaware, laid out
unattended and cold –
the letter was not necessary.
Crumple the rags of the wind
yet moment by moment, trust it.
Bandaged, I exit sidestepping the stone
and I say: it was for nothing,
it has already been written.
We love like stems of mint, releasing
harmless memories; what remains
is the faint limonene – fatal corruption of water.
Loved, your name means this: to be loved. No,
it was not an idea, ideas belong to a bygone season:
my home was that white corner, the shape
of ashtreys, the wood of tables, the sugar bowl, –
the aesthetic field;
and the candles gathered from the tables
and the silence – vectors.
I have emerged into a performance of objects,
gestures, places; I have never loved an idea,
poetry is resonance: this, together with you
inevitable concomitance.
If we return,
it is not to rappel again, to descend
into the gorge; no, and yet, we lengthen:
your cruelty is real.
And I see the octopus, the great oak;
Flevo is the ultimate threshold, liquid body
or nourishment, the essence of mud merged
with technique. I climb, and vigilant I subtend
the gliding curve of the frisbees.
Do not go to the civil registry. Wrap the name, ineluctable,
to the room we will empty; perhaps the dandelion,
in the furthest flash of Oost, will linger in resistant rupture.
Café De Druif a Flevopark, 28 Aprile
