Sand of Sailors
Come, yes in the afternoon. No, not later. You know,
January afternoons have a tendency to withdraw fast. Soon
it's getting colder. The stove wishes each visitor a welcome
though this wish does not depend on a perspective openly
related to us.
Evening, during a beach walk we meet
the privacy of single data and another mind's
development
no-time
he bee that stung
left
honey
we've stepped down
the flux of
rose
in glasses
soft robin breast
I hesitate to
call it
breath of reflections
hello
avoidance
could green be tourmaline
drops tested
manifold?
desire rendered
moist weight in
dances
feels a shift.
Almost dark, my friend, a
female one-hand catamaran sailor, points to what she calls
"her face in dunes". The object wants to be
visualized but fears three dimensional outlooks. A spiral of
energies released is pushing toward complimentary
participation even if visible light is absent. What can only
be explored in total darkness seems to include the power of
the mystical. By not naming it conventionally, we enjoy the
vibration of something known but free of any conclusion that
could be a limiting influence, if not damage to the unknown.
Here, behind the cliff-house, old cypress trees
reserve the security nest-builders are seeking.
Autobiographical linked to weather conditions, bedded into
more than what soil alone can establish, sounds go
astray
floating
an owl cries we change
sides
in the whirlpool.
Contacts
It seems that a line drawn by an artist refers to
a dialogue. It could be a life-long impatience kept in a
hand's movement. Francis Bacon's colors are shaped like
dialogues, once observed, experienced in winding bodies of
his friends. Those dialogues can be read by us, the visitors
of a gallery.
Dialogues seem to happen between
objects all by themselves. Then men may participate. In a
phase of interference the verisimilitude of a relationship
proves itself.
Powwow. The bow-hunter's tendon may be
tuned for a low d before the arrow wants a
finger to let go merging into contact with a deer. Then, a
new dialogue occurs, linking the physical influence of
digesting venison with the spiritual experience.
think
how fast
how brown-eyed
will be our
tribe.
The
Meantime as Evidence
I
Perseverance in open
doors. None surrenders,
the air occupies slit and
splinter. A transfer of the garden's
aspen-green to a
darker inside is halted. Bones narrowed,
the weight of
assembled red particles press against the
wall.
Outside, particularly engaged fragments hold
still;
they kindly presume and assimilate a reader waiting
for an enjoyable inquietude; it's like before a
stranger
calls us for the first time by our first
name.
A little indulging, the writers of letters
borrow
into the listener's limited patience and report
this:
II
- Summer of suffocation,
Michelle. Thoughts with swallows
crossing winged,
oracular. Wanting the moth in me
wandering around all
night. Scheme of its powder whitens
what you recall the
softest in between. You -
the meantime as evidence. No
disparagement, no
impunity, but a fever on its request for
oscillation.
- Nora, not from a design Lagerfeld
mentioned. Discernment,
disavowal? I think I suffer a
repulse against my close
attachment to inherited
tissues: skin, the one I wear
moistens hair, grows a
flower's smell, ordered or not.
I disbanded the
modifier, did away with moribund
requirements. I share
your longing for new
inflections.
III
The exchange of
thoughts between N. and M. can be a menace
without
negotiator or could be interpreted as the nuns
moaning
in a menagerie of like-minded mammals
What,
finally, is deprived, what is entrusted
to become
compulsory? Organ by organ reminds
that relocating one
heart's imprints needs new instructions.
Handling the
right sizes, we defrost abalone. Sharing
boundaries,
sea-colors break. We wish to learn more about
mother of pearls.
As if hesitation can be part of an
inactivity, those salt-masked
toys flare up on their own
purpose. Halves, half persuaded.
Nocturnal
Steps
Pretending cherries to be the flesh of angry
tongues.
Here is the inflammation of a fruit tree's blind
eye.
Beacon-bill, odd numbers lapping out of Oriental
mouths.
Silk may crumble for seven times; the fifth fault
is a tight one.
Tired of a caravan trip, there's
nocturnal rheumatism.
The camels need a rest under warming
stars.
At Samarkand, fatigue unknown. The route of
exchange
clings to the silence of opium, only the mind
ever singing.
Hosted in smoke, back-dreaming about a poppy
field,
black pollen sways on and behind the line -
a Chinese
horizon.
Here it addresses itself to the sun, to the
sun's red.
Beyond calculations, even the full moon
reddens.
Quietly the camel's front legs break in a well -
As it happens, there is no
water.
Those Wooden
Shoes
traveling. At first we're offered
strolling
lazily over the cobblestones at Gouda's
market.
Hendrikje, as she has had it in her apron
before,
lures us to a handful of delight in a pound of
her
black cherries. June lets her meet many by
chance;
but it wouldn't be sweet success or perhaps
less
if the juice in such fruits' flesh could be
miscalculated.
No tongue in waiting that isn't persistently
eager.
The next joy, before low windows,
can't be
neglected. Here the town's lace curtains
are offering
material for the shy, for the lovers'
behavior at eleven
o'clock, well eleven-thirty.
Bells are falling
straight into sound
following a swing of their own
inclination.
Late looks between girls are
taking
advantage of the solid gray in Dutch fog.
It's
like a sisterly give-away of blue shades
along tulips in
rows. And those wooden shoes?
To their carved
proportion wet soil gives
in to a negative imprint. A less
imagined occurs
when simultaneously working fins in
deep waters
make a move toward a little smaller
fish.
Sand-surfing. As in oscillations
drifting
barely engaged, we try to bring over the two of
us
just for as long as it takes being astonished
about
our seemingly disproportionate
floating.
Swells Advised
The Electricity on this front door bell
automatically alerted, photographs each visitor
greets the guest accordingly to checks done in 1 sec
answers with a female voice in G minor or D major
parallel to the lock. A second photograph registers
reactions on face hand and feet. It is drizzling
on the coast, the sun veiled. A dolphin leaps for better
orientation in an ocean filled with enemies and friends.
Is the harvester welcome, are the swells well advised
to greet the intruder? The voluptuous vendor counts
its bubbles - pshshsht – is there negotiable sky’s blue?
Reuniting particles of light and dark matter, gloss
gleaming over uncovered entries
a blanket’s dream loitering time with burn-outs
The weight of night releases itself
shy, migratory, artless.
A morning of no spider-juice
running on overtime – five thirty.
East still carries a horizontal
red wound left from a fading fog bank.
Acceptance of smiles when we slice
into the crust of our breakfast bread.
The expression on her teeth signals
a certain white like corn home in rows.
Our window-front, Dutch screened
adjoining a spin of minds, two axes.
On a creek as we go by so tender
trout-lovers are aware of teaming up
with spangled spawn, its shine embodies
foam on forked streams’ rapids.
A couple squeezes black berries.
Sudden permit, a sliding promise
checking out a slow affection
both tongues still undecided
not yet focused
eyes into one another’s
return from exile
Preparation
A section encircled, drifting,
the fetus a
swimmer. Do both
have one shore in mind? They seem to
fetch up,
water is the matter for them, even
condensed.
There seems intolerance acquired.
Along
that beach no easy walking.
Soft disagreements,
rain-bridged. Rain to be
a mother's self since her body
rises.
Then this accountable long view, longer
when
the wind plays her wide brim,
the peacock
feather
greets the nurse at the delivery
station.
Convulsions. More attentiveness?
Nothing
really entitled. Little differences
in the way she
always looks; but something
is to settle into a peculiar
satisfaction
like in an act of attending an anonymous
birth.
No exigency. Nearly a plan to get
infected;
just not impeccable, immune? Motives in
search,
introduced through a relaxing Ninety-nine degrees
F.
Each gradation pronounces the warmth of its
meaning.
Water and growth for nine months. Now
swellings
in a row of groaning, slenderly
furnished.
Fluids pleasing their own
inventiveness.
Dispensing White
I ask
your
veil gives south
its
summer
west
the door
on red
hinges
eyes to look
into
others
north
no rather
east
leaving remotely
the
dark
barely lit /the space a ship of shades / subject
to choosing / one with
one without / a lip not talked
to
Saturday evening
one boy
calling
with his sister's name
second
sound
washed away
by the sea
half past
six
out of hands
dew-water drinking
the darkness
occasionally darker
access to
those eyes
saying it shall be
the
moon turns
liquid
emerald
tracing
opposite
night-wind
walks against me
home
half split / fluids / if they wanted to / streaming / shy /
the mouth
he seize of an open question / before challenged
/ before
home
she
remarks she sea lays
low
starboard
the
air becomes paper acres
guess I ride the
lines
off the moment's library
she reads her
shadow
I play the
lake
one fish insists to
stay
on its
bottom
you and I haven't / (the heart an
exception) / heard that silence
sprayed myrrh
two
fingers on this glass
trace higher
frequencies
Tiberon Views San
Francisco
Temple town
as if
doubt is
not in
residence
salt-tasting
air
patterns the window
lingering
white
stone-fingers between
hospitals
churches
a blue
dresses
waving
sails
swelling
the beggar's
hand
his wish
in front of
clicking shoes
its destination
one
way
the fog
moving
streets
harbored
why
not try again
talk with no direction
autumn
first little
then more
sprinklers spreading
the motel tub's
ultramarine
in
circles
Edges Not Kept
A dream enters the studio. It donates its own
biography
alerting an empty canvas not yet changed into a
painting.
As it learns to awaken separately from the
artist
it holds the brush closest to a spot that likes
sparrows
flying off, leaving only the color mauve
on a property in a state of
early information.
Several days I didn't see
her
laughing
she
rests
inside a
composition
on both ends
explanations
she wouldn't mention
this
eyes
red
some
particles
contact the
light
they travel
give
away heat is
involved
occasionally
fast
a word
occurs
as in a
fuse
one is the accent of the
other
one
fall
evenly
we
share
leaves shifting
structures
some are
entangled
we try to free
them
Seemingly a second way of walking together,
the instance
dilates its edges. Measurements keep a wet
gloss out of her
mental Atlas. Still a moist menacing
port: the oily portrait.
Occurring spread, whimsically
and weapon-like, the bewildered
gaze reverted, slightly
tangential: her and the painter's look at a third.
Copyright © Werner Reichhold 1998.
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