Twaddle her mouth said, tired
that she knew better, given up
to the mouth’s part.
In his notebook
the air takes the smell and shape
of rooms of unfinished things –
clock parts, bits to set moving,
queerly shaped pebbles.
Little use to a people hoping
one day to jump on the moon’s face.
I should not put a frame to him.
Imagine him water, taking any shape
while the shape is, untrustworthy.
Everything discarded: wood and stone
he chipped to unreconciled faces,
obsessions with maps, codes, mirrors,
or wondering how it would be
to have never seen horses.
They were ashamed of their own sounds,
I know that she bore me in terror
less of pain than of pain’s cry.
I am a leaf at its edge, turning
its growth back, fashioning
the image of his face in sunlight.
She is pictured turning away.
Mostly I see him staring
into a field of yellow flowers,
staring and nodding gravely
with the worldless dignity
of big flowers, curious, unyielding,
part of that tall yellow dancing.