for Odette
I
Bales of hay—cartons
of sunlight fading in a field.
II
Shadows rise like water,
white fences comb their hair.
III
Leaves everywhere—
shreds of a giant eraser;
an oak leaf,
becoming an antique.
IV
Outside, a snowfall's passed
and painted all the windowsills,
even the curb's gray putty.
V
Sunlight in a window—
flower in a glass.
VI
The highway's an old
surrealist's granite hair;
and the sea's become
a sky full of clouds.
A wind records the waves,
then plays them in the trees.
VII
A flock of crows
dissolves in the mist—
cigarette's ash
in a glass of water;
and sunlight
twitching in a puddle.
VIII
Now the night drives up.
Distant buildings
are golden radiators,
the sky's a black cloud
full of sparks...
Sirens, dogs;
and he just stood there,
by the police car,
with those handcuffs on,
staring at the moon.
IX
After the rain
a streetlight hangs
the shadow of trees
like laundry
on a wall.
X
Hands, twin sisters
to whom everyone's
a wrinkle
that needs to be smoothed,
a stranger who should be fed.
Hands, those humble wings
that make each day
fly toward its goal;
at rest, still holding
the shape of a tool.
XI
Proletarian aristocrat
whose forehead glows
like imagination's egg;
when you're asleep
you look like
the death mask of Keats,
alone with yourself
again—absolute, relieved.
XII
I wish we were two birds
living in a courtyard
near St.-Germain-Des-Pres.
Leaves spread their tablecloths,
trees open their cafes;
all day the sun's a barrel of beer,
at night the earth's a woman,
the full moon's her mirror.
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