I listen to the wind the big wingbeats of the invisible body mixed with the sea, the trees and the roofs
to everything beating, feeling, breathing in my body as it lifts the waters and fumbles through the depths— stirring up thought’s leaves
all this water, gathered, bent, broken, quickened doors slammed, the stretched-out moan of a pine
of a very old curved pine next to which passersby known as wise men or saints poets or madmen once used to meditate on a balcony of mists—
between them and the unimaginable a few heartbeats—
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September, still waters, like a stretched-out sheet— a fermenting mist over there sketches a boat on the horizon a fisherman seems to walk on the waters his feet stir up a translucent vapor variations on a theme by Debussy*— blue-grays and washed out greens, slidings, erased confluences perceived by something in the body and maybe in thought—
[* “The fairies are exquisite dancers”—Préludes]
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September, no one knows who’s air who’s water or mirror—
at times a tremor—
deaf colors, muffled slidings, fugues, confluences strolls through the distant shades of a watch perceived by the body without thinking of anything—
God who’s no one is always the one who walks and breathes on the dawn or the evening waters—
the hand needs and the body of these wine-colored, deformed blocks of sandstone with protruding tumors— in the moss’s ochres only a water ripple clipped with scissors betrays a presence—
far away in the blurred brightness a fisherman still for a long time then it’s as if he walked dazzled dancer on a sheet of translucent shivers
the limbs’ and the body’s segments held together by the trembled air
(seven thousand of years ago all this already drawn on a sandstone wall except this rasping shrubbery at my back cicadas—)
you think without really thinking of September years where the space-source springs forth in the heart and no one knows how far this bit of clarity showing in the you and the I of gestures and words will be his—
have the nail, the pain become closer, more familiar? I listen to the call of the wasps as they gather for takeoff—
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your hand slowly fingers the blue paint, flaking off the cracked wood, falling in places from the window frame
the glass is magical, when you move the trees wave, make faces at you a sunray cast as if in its beehive
sketches with the watery glass the branch of the almond tree in a single stroke
even though the house by the sea is now gone—
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once again summer like a scream pulled out of the sea’s dark womb—
mirror days when we can’t tell up from down— heat, rocks, at times a nocturnal shiver water diluted in the air and the rays in the depths where blind fish swim—
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