And World’s Memory Moves, Part Four

Photo: hpgruesen. Public domain/Pixabay license.

Even if you are phantasm without shape,
without scarlet eyes, the binder that holds
the souls together with the god who expands,
reveals himself with a smile, he drinks me
and consumes you like sap of the thriving
ruins you raise the nothingness like scarves
of the northern lights in long streaks revolving
around the heart little by little you raise
the earth on a new foundation, on a far more
slippery sphere and you bury me among
hiding places without refuge as in the emptiness
between sparse leaves, oscillating between
light and darkness where the look is the star
of my heart, the star that has become pure
sight that catches you with the shoulders
bitten by the lie, by the frauds, fallen into
suffering and into death in such a way that
we are compelled to think about the future
and about the angels sitting enthroned
on the rock of the centuries taking into
account new skies and a new earth and
people freshly pulled out of the egg ‒,
in silence and love let him bring you
into the everlasting rest of God into
the day without gate dressing again
multiple shapes in space what countenance
will you take, will you fetch the same music
from the fountain, the same smile from
much untroubled silence on the intangible
white gravel of the soul crawling like
a leech of milky light not measured
in the valley nor by the God Measurer?

Awaken, you Romanian, you who sleep
wherever you are and Christ will enlighten
you so that you should no longer ferment
like other rich guys ‒, all the air of the planet
is strongly illuminated by your antlers,
look, the light is visible in the woods,
the serpent’s tongues stuck out at you
oscillate on a broken map, awaken, you
Romanian you, who sleep be efficient
as the one who moves barefoot into
the empty rooms and eternalize yourself,
but take heed, watch over the indifference
and over the differences, over the margin
of error above the waterline over the abyss
of slumber: you Romanian, you risk
becoming a chalk man in the fields
of your childhood; can you still hear
your voice yodelling among the trees
in the boondocks?

God, the great Foreigner,
chooses his souls
then He closes the door ‒ no hysteria.

Lunar geyser
a tree that catches alight and goes out
in a magnetic ring ‒ rebellion and suffering.

The heart is an eye, his mirrors
have hidden all the spectres
there is no one and there is nothing
to see things have abandoned their
bodies, they aren’t objects nor ideas
they are explosions of colours
stripped legions revolve always
revolve in a spiral, vortices of shapes
that not always finish their shape,
your look is the propeller that gives
them the impulse.

The buried echoes hold the souls
in their arms now the pains abandon
themselves to the languorous whores
who, in the deepest humiliation, seize
the trophy in transfiguration and light,
the countenance that leans over, general
denudation in the silence of the objects
no longer hoping for the twin word,
for the fatal alleviation so that he should
posses nothing of the fruits of love any longer.

The place itself is within you
your upright exhaustion, the mystery
that enlivens you ‒ you are the wakeful wind.


Summer dawn, golden light
a woman with two children
with golden eyes sings hymns
under the infinite tree she
fades away in the soft clouds,
nothing moves, the living breaths
enshroud me, wings rise without
swish. From behind the trunk
of a tree comes to me a skeleton
with bulging eyes with clenched
teeth, with a cannibal’s red gums,
black smocked bones “Rest assured,
I’ll lay a hand on you,” he shouts
and grabs my wrists, down the alley
flapping her arms the woman sings
louder, the children laugh on the alley,
from the clouds golden coins fall
at the feet, the dawn and the children
fell at the foot of the forest where
the skeleton broke like the black salt,
the sea and the sky attract the multitude
of angels who get entangled with
powerful roses of eyes and of manes
they do DIY the hearse of my slumber
covered with leaves, breasts.

In the garden at dawn
a choir of children sings
from behind a tree leaps
a black skeleton “Rest
assured, I’ll lay a hand
on you,” he shouts and
in a rush he catches a crow.
The children laugh when
the bird tells them that
she’s a young defunct mother.

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