Excerpt from the book Exceptions and Melancholies: Poems 1986—2006

Vertigo


Only one is a wanderer.

And when she was sad she’d go into the street to be with people.

Two together are always going somewhere. They lie down beneath cypress,

next to a bird. I imagine a sky. It fans her mountains

and waves. She’d left some small town

where they used to make tires.

Stories are made out of stairwells

and rope. I’d been interrupting for years and didn’t

know it. This old park. The dark hatchery. Workers in jumpsuits

throw down their poison at dawn.

Not everyone can be described. It’s perfectly

natural. If she’s thinking about love

does she break down


the door of the bedroom. Of course not. Not publicly

speaking. To the left there’s a sofa. We all lived in rented rooms.

That’s how it goes with subject matter.

Nude figures in profile

floating among palm trees. The idea was touristy,

like a postcard. I was given a small auditorium. I watched over

rush hour. I write down everything as I forget it,

especially at night.

I lock the door from the inside.



Blackouts


rolled through the city.

Whoever has an answer won’t last.

Traffic muscles through. Whole families lazing on steps

eating grapes. “No I’m not,” says the youngest

to her canary. “You grew into your legs,

Tall One, didn’t you.” Then

no one. Loosed papers

flatten the fences. Bits of glass rest there

and burn. This part of nature

runs along ridges, sprouts

wings in the valleys and wanders

the world like a candle. A general steps

down from his pedestal. Everyone

hated that statue. She points

left and says “right.” She could be

an orchid. All those seen from afar moving away

from the market. This part of nature

breaks down the butterfly, this part of man

into flutes. Flop

through your branches,

naked one. In room after room, your

strangers have raised you.