Nature

By the canefields at dusk.

From solidarity and desire, the trace of winter’s end,
Will I always remember that? I see people
Scowled on their prophecies, and dreams from before
Are never nearly settled in the impression of first want—
With these rhythmic ghosts upon red petals, and in the distance
The beauty of the dew—vanishing in deeper silence—
Terrifying their own voices nightmarish with unease

ii.

if I ever had a dream

it was not like this / bone split open and blooms /

Mes mots dans ce rêve.

The likeness of snow-covered heaps on desert-searing nights
Of a scathing wind that cursed a name and brought it
By the crook of a deserted nest sunbathed by bare hands,
Seducing a whistle to the primeval waters that shoehorn rocks
Reflected with an awakening flutter within a cold room
With lip of ice and loitering hill sides by a pale tide,
blistering with mercy;