after Jules Supervielle

It is beautiful to have seen the electrical wires
slice the sun setting into sixths
with all the locusts like plums
bleeding against the dark trees,

to have once entered that red maple
and to have watched cars pass from its boughs,

to have stayed when you beat me
and then to have been freed
into a night as warm as skin.

It is beautiful to feel the body engorge
and to understand, even though seconds
are something like apples I hold,
these are not mine.

It is beautiful to get so drunk
and drive over hills over bridges
under which a tarry water shudders.

It is beautiful to know my body
(which walks me to buses and nightclubs
and over to my lover eating octopus)
is walking into a thin chill shade,
the oblong shadow of a narrow tower,
down that skinny carless alley.

It is beautiful to have been shown the whole pattern,
like a rug spread out on a woman’s arm,
then to choose the one with small black squares,
so coarse when I bundle it up,
like holding an armful of biting spiders.
I spread it out all over my living room floor
and I sit on it, and select words.


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