Harold Rhenisch

Claudel, who rides an anchor
and Claudel who dresses
in feathers, dear Paul who paints with a pane
of glass, and drinks
with his fingers: Paul Claudel
who dreams of his life
sent me a note in yesterday's Mail,
the stamp torn off, the customs
declaration unreadable, but the weight
certain: 50g:
night, wings, shingles. Cryptic,
but indomitable. The 'human
spirit' 'soars'. Whatever that means,
whoever the victim, the same ends.
Time loves us.

The words have tried for order,
chirping, squawking,
gnawing off the buds
on white poplars, sticky
in spring, clinging to the soles
of our shoes

like scarabs.
Time loves us. A tiny insect wing
carries each of our thoughts
into the beams of light.

The East Village Poetry Web