THE FRENCH MASTERS VISIT ME THIS SPRING IN UNSEASONABLE RAIN 1. The water burns like the age of a rock, the lip of a window, the tongue of a mouth. Char stands on the edge of a leaf-blade. This is his disappearing trick. This is the muscle that flicks its tail within the words, this is the dark deeps, the stars, the nightwinds, the house of lupins: moon like a thumbprint; moon like the tongue thirst out in anger; moon like light clinging to an apricot petal. Prevert coughs into his absinthe, pressing down his blue suit of air, running blue fingers through his white hair: old lusts, old passions. The masters cluster at the window, demanding the only truth we have within this truth. All night I hear what I do not hear, just speech, these old, borrowed words, what we build with slow care, the sun.
|The East Village Poetry Web