I.
I can’t find the title
of a memory about you
with a hand torn from darkness
I step on fragments of faces
soft friendly profiles
frozen into a hard contour
circling above my head
empty as a forehead of air
a man’s silhouette of black paper
II.
living—despite
living—against
I reproach myself for the sin of forgetfulness
you left an embrace like a superfluous sweater
a look like a question
our hands won’t transmit the shape of your hands
we squander them touching ordinary things
calm as a mirror
not mildewed with breath
the eyes will send back the question
every day I renew my sight
every day my touch grows
tickled by the proximity of so many things
life bubbles over like blood
Shadows gently melt
let us not allow the dead to be killed—
perhaps a cloud will transmit remembrance—
a worn profile of Roman coins
III.
the women on our street
were plain and good
they patiently carried from the markets
bouquets of nourishing vegetables
the children on our street
scourge of cats
the pigeons—
softly gray
a Poet’s statue was in the park
children would roll their hoops
and colorful shouts
birds sat on the Poet’s hand
read his silence
on summer evenings wives
waited patiently for lips
smelling of familiar tobacco
women could not answer
their children: will he return
when the city was setting
they put the fire out with hands
pressing their eyes
the children on our street
had a difficult death
pigeons fell lightly
like shot down air
now the lips of the Poet
form an empty horizon
birds children and wives cannot live
in the city’s funereal shells
in cold eiderdowns of ashes
the city stands over water
smooth as the memory of a mirror
it reflects in the water from the bottom
and flies to a high star
where a distant fire is burning
like a page of the Iliad