The House for Us
Made by the body, a house
is read and re-read. I hear the iron
hooves on the roof and we
shall therefore close the past
in geometry, For these are the houses
in which we are going. I dream of
windows smooth and green
that only live in me sometimes.
I forget the rain prints and seasons.
Isn’t the poet deep in her heart
a haunted castle? The pictures I find
in my reading I inhabit. Sometimes
the house grows elastic.
Diaphanous, but not
of glass, more the nature of vapor.
My breath a coat of armor
to live in. There are moments
we think of an attic. If we
compose a house, it frequently
happens that granite
has wings. The sudden entire sky
hospitable to us. It is better.
This is why a poet belongs
to a reader. You grow buoyant,
further proof of these
weightless houses we need.
There is a poem in which the poet dreams
as follows: You I carry
to the only elsewhere, an empty
house in which each of us
encloses a sleeping
red poppy. When we
have dissolved in the waters
no ordinary way
we shall take lesson from the houses
that live again. Ô nostalgie
des lieux qui n’étaient point
assez aimés à l’heure passagèr.[1]
I see it now, here one room,
there another, and here
a corridor scattered inside me.
REFERENCES
Oh longing for the places that were not cherished enough in that fleeting hour.
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