Those are words that we were
or where we are, and we are, there, or were
on the hills above the river, dust and waste

what does a narrative construct that memory
tries to shape some abbreviated version of

that was the time when at the last moment
my life changed or my life did not change
nothing changed, it all went on as before

the wide sky,
the mowed hay, the fishermen on the river

these are still only words, there is no word
unaware of itself as an event that comes after
whatever it was, the river, the sky, the sum
or component, functions, not even a word: sky

It doesn't exist
any more than the memory of my first kiss
or yours, here
there are voices (the other language)





closing my eyes while writing
closing my eyes while writing this morning

flies, coffee grounds, particles of dust or snow
weightless or waste or else, how do we read?

the line from Mandelstam you said on the tram

     where is it? what is it?

there is the sound of the sound of the sound of

     warm blue late afternoon sky

the lines
of a Russian poet float across like the hawk or eagle
you said,

"I am not Cassandra"

the vase is moving
between the east and west window
the leaves of the gladiolas
are turning, the words
those words that were once
whatever it was we were
for anyone? why even stop

a line or return the invisible
sounds, those sounds that are heard
in the air, and nowhere near the writing here