III.
Bikes, bikes. Tell her how naïve readers
handle their misery: little hay
to cover the winter, yet arrogance
at times hits the mark. The first,
the second… Verdicts, a curse
imposed if you profits from the cheap
bargains that follow theft.
I braked the third below the moon, to piss
in the canal before its bright reflection
(but the predators ignored the view) – Eurydice!
And I continued on foot. The fourth was a figurehead:
how weird to have to leave, to trade your frame
for hard hooves and convince my infected self
snakes in dried blood, the terrible asthma
deserves the foam of those who cannot say
but recall exile.
Entrepotdok, along your flank I go assaulted.
Behind the great vessel the water is a sewer,
yet splashes rebound; it seems the weather
has improved – no more rain, metals
of the mechanism dilate, the rising
of bridges is compromised. Water them,
or we will have to jump, we will have to jump.
The silver of the stoic dandelion resists
the northern wind, not swollen
but horizontal, cumulus humilis,
the sky mocks the earth, flattened
they face each other. It is a miracle
to witness flesh riding a bicycle.
Indescribable stage – it pains
the anguished return to stones.
I speak of you, empty spirals, still,
dead, you are the beds of tires whipped
by sharp and furious feet,
you know: those wheels, panting snakes
just before the peack,
now they assume the posture of hawks
in dive, slicing with trails that might
intrigue those still on training wheels
and on the pedals, upright, one day will be.
I’ve looked on endlessly, I walk
and linger, I lose sharpness,
slow down – formidable tracks:
nothing at all to add.
I was late stairing the objects
continuously open, silent. Why,
then why do you remain unchanged?
Coward distances, consider the breath,
unconditional trust
and I pursue the filling.
Kriterion, 24 April
IV.
Amstel ***. Steps dressed as silence.
We saw flamingos twist
before the volcano, then a run
to catch Dido, the soprano.
And I turn the guest’s key,
you hand me the chalice, you light
the hours devoted to things uttered
by larynges appearing in the dark.
“A good day, visits and concerts,
the opera rehearsing for its premiere,
how long since you went to theatre?”
Legs wrapped around the armrest,
a pack of Marlboros,
the ceiling crossed by pendulating eyes; —
in your gallery box
flamingos come by.
“You know how I am obsessed by the environment
no, I have not heard back, anyway
that is no longer home.” —
“I have also invested — money, years,
and now they strive to kick me out;
I will consider my options — Montenegro,
Cyprus, the hour of the adagio approaches —”
“Portugal?” — “That too,
certainly.”
The crystal cabinet
and clear decanters
of candied scents
(I doubt I will buy such cabinets)
immaculate arrangement of spirits,
proudly displayed
silently exhaling the stiffness of rituals.
— Continuously poured, between
women and politicians,
acrobatic threads,
“So basically you’re saying
that we’re escaping from nature?”
Still parked in the hangar,
the boat, early spring:
“Yes, it seems it has stopped raining, funny,
you must have noticed. I will thaw it out
next week — tell me,
how much does a parking spot in Bologna cost?
Two thousand euros to moor it —
I lie down at night, you know,
if the wind allows.
I will emigrate again,
as long as there is water!”
“Here gardens are better hidden,
and the walls identical, they call it modesty,
truth is, they feared
a second French Revolution:
open windows — we are equal,
we hide nothing,
(the neighbour opposite
clings to a Rembrandt
above the fireplace).”
And he goes on.
“Yet ten years is a long time,
ten summers and never a doubt.”
And I notice you loiter a little,
you had a fever, they rang the doorbell —
a mannequin and a cap held
the envelope: from this moment
she is no longer your wife.
My lines mimic the spoon
slowly turning to keep from burning,
ladling the overflowed anger, and I think
as a sprout in sudden mastery of listening:
“Suspicion from here on is a handful of soil,
the ending for which no one waves
asking for an encore.”
I nod and gather the loosened boards.
I will emigrate again,
as long as there is water.
Twenty and sixty past midnight
time itself expands.
Behind the rear window, the road dissolves.
“Here, in two centuries no one will die …”
and the hiss of smoke pierces dawn.
Amstel, near the Blauwbrug, 25 April
