Maybe there’s a heaven for it,
An alpha that no beta
Follows, above all no o
Mega. Maybe there’s a
Language for it that doesn’t fail
The recurring future
With luminaries in shadow
And hopes that give us their
Word. Maybe your death
Will lose its alphabet,
And the flock lose its birds.
I transform you and move forward
On the old trail, I’m your blood
Hound, as if out of my senses, I’ve got your
Scent, the skin on your back in the vanilla
Aroma of a sauce, your invisible foot
Prints on a rain-sheltered
Spot outside the house. Euphoria. Ikar and
Vetiver or Velvet Touch. My nose
Is dreaming what it’s missing. Come
The bed is freshly made and some
Where between sheet and mattress
Lie all those solitary hairs
That outlive every passion.
Chosen by chance to breathe
At just this moment. With eyes wide open
And soles coming off. Chosen by
Chance to love at just this moment:
Counted off all the blinks
Of an eye, the yearning sentences fall
Between the lines. And the
Events yet to come? They’re
No longer marked on the calendar.
Chosen by chance to hope
At just this moment. To be. To wait.
For hearts that are whole, for
Park benches occupied again, for
Sunlight that gets through, for the
Creaking of floorboards. The final
Bliss lies in the everyday
That stands up to death.
They can’t take a thing from us.
Not one night. Not the whispers
The meaningful glances. Not
The twenty years of togetherness,
Secrets and complicity.
They can’t drive a wedge
Between us, because you are you and
Finally you in our silence.
Picture by picture we move through our
Eras, etching, enchantment. Existing
On kisses, sea water and the
Firm footing of words, dancing
Sculptures. Because you are you
No, we did not believe in
Eternity, but in a far too
Far-off death. In an indefinite
Later that leaves room for dreaming
Of a studio by the Wagram and
Thousands of books. Of quinces
And pears and a big table
That’s set for friends.
This end was something we did not consider
Nor that the law would douse our
Desire, that our multi
Lateral promises would count for
Nothing. We held fast to the luck
Of synchronicity, to our ideas
Colours, forms, sentences, even if
We sometimes fell from our lives,
At home on the precipice and in heaven.
Translated by Geoffrey C. Howes