Good that she decided all this for us,
that I didn’t have to convince her to stop the nonsense,
didn’t have to watch her hesitate,
didn’t have to see her dark eyes.
Now it’s important to disappear, to choose the right course,
it’s important not to return to where I used to live,
it’s important not to go to familiar places,
not to frighten friends, or disappoint strangers,
not to wander into their dreams, not to touch their things,
not to look through their books, not to drink their wine,
not to hear their breathing, not to see their eyes,
not to feel what they themselves no longer feel.
It’s good that I can fly out of the chimney now,
walk through fire, fall on the grass,
feel the flow of the stuff that fills her dreams,
notice the cables that keep her afloat.
It’s a good thing that death is neither an achievement nor a loss,
good that our footsteps don’t give us away,
that nothing can be turned back,
that nothing can be lost forever.
What was there?
green warmth,
against the orange background
of the evening sky.
Golden moons,
blue fish in the river,
dark shadows
on her face.
□ □ □
What to do with the priests?
They graze their churches like cattle,
leading them to emerald-green pastures, watching
how their churches plop down into the river silt
to escape from the June sun.
They follow their churches, chasing them out of the neighbor’s
wheat fields, turning them toward home, where
evening fires are lit in cottages.
They sleep on bags and books, listening to the breath of sleeping animals,
recalling in dreams the faces of women who came and
told them their darkest sins,
asking for advice, awaiting forgiveness.
What kind of advice can he give you?
His entire life is spent herding echoes,
searching for pasturelands, and sleeping under a dark sky.
You can sing with him, you can
sleep next to him, covering yourself with an infantry jacket,
you can dry your wet clothes at the fire,
wash your shirts in the river.
He is ready to hang them in the church like a holy shroud.
What to do with the atheists?
They say, “Truly I believe, I believe in everything said,
but I will never admit it for any reason,
under any circumstances, that’s my business,
and only concerns me. Let him take offense
a hundred times and threaten me, get angry, and turn away from me on his crucifix,
anyway—What is he without me? What can he do alone?
He must struggle for my attention.
He is destined to fight for my redemption.
He must take into consideration my doubts, my
inconsistencies, my sincerity.”
What to do with you? You can sing with us,
stand in a circle with us, place your hands on our shoulders:
we are united in our faith,
united in our love,
in our loneliness,
in our disappointment.
What to do with all of us?
If he had just a little more time,
if he did not have to watch his domesticated church,
if he didn’t have to follow it, chase it out of yellow fields,
he would have more time for our
worrisome premonitions.
Love destroys
all our ideas of balance.
We can forget and stand to the side,
we can deny what we once said,
we can kiss the black lips of night—
we are the only ones touched by the flames of night,
we are the only ones who believe,
we are the only ones who will never
admit it.
You can talk about everything that you’ve dreamt.
You can talk, you don’t have to fear the dark:
someone will hear you anyway,
but no one will ever believe you.
□ □ □
The city where she hides,
burning with flags, lies under a snow-covered mountain pass.
Hunters chase wild animals out of Protestant churches,
blue stars fall into the lake,
killing slow-moving fish.
Oh, tightrope walkers dangle above the streets.
They balance in school
windows, inspiring awe.
They avoid the gulls on the lake
that grab weightless golden potato chips
out of her hands.
Where we once lived,
we didn’t have time for peace or reflection.
We struggled against the sharp reeds of the night,
threw off our clothes like counterweights down dark elevator shafts,
so we could be suspended in the air for one more night,
not loving and not forgiving
not accepting and not believing,
angrily experiencing the best days
of our lives.
The city where she finally hides
touches her gently by the hand,
and shows her all its warehouses and storage.
Oh, ports where transported
Senegalese prisoners gather,
dark meat of hearts,
ivory of eyes,
oh, those cellars packed with cheese,
welcoming Protestant towns,
where you can sit out Judgment Day,
where they have such learned lawyers,
such impregnable walls.
Where we once sat with her,
warming ourselves in kitchens
near the blue flames,
not a trace of us remains. Time, that old tightrope walker,
fell a hundred times, then got up a hundred times,
despite broken collarbones and metal teeth,
time doesn’t care which way he moves—
he licks his wounds then once again dances with the gulls.
In the city where she managed to hide
there are such bright-colored dresses and blouses.
The Chinese students and pilots have such
velvety skin.
Oh, the fresh mountain air,
the feeling of blood rushing
after exhausting kisses.
She didn’t leave anything behind where she came from,
not a single voice or curse.
Life is a joyful tug of rope.
On one side are the angels.
On the other—lawyers.
There are more lawyers.
But their services are more expensive.
□ □ □
Saint Francis built this city for surfers and heroes.
He brought ships from royal fleets
to these quiet bays covered with fog.
The Spanish jumped onto the shore,
Russian sailors came by rowboats and Chinese prospectors for gold
stitched the night with lanterns, surprised by the shadows in the hills.
And each church they established was like a weary voice—
there will be enough freedom for everyone, as long as you don’t keep it all for yourself,
share the bread and coal during winter,
and look at the sun through the glass bottle of the ocean.
There is enough gold for everyone,
but only the bravest will find love!