The poem, the one I long for,
the one I aspire to,
is the one that can be read aloud and go unheard.
It is that impossibility I start each time
it is from that chimera
that I write and erase.)
Sunrise and Silence
The sun rises and
I silence all fear, I silence any
I seek a virgin dawn of myself,
I seek the birth of the light,
not its illumination of me.
Only at the End
The two shores
are always one, but you learn that only at the end,
afterwards, after you sink between them.
In This Valley
you hear crickets
and now the
wards off or brings on the trembling
of all that bends.
Today, in this valley,
under this moon,
I learned that the wind does not pass,
I learned that it is always arriving.
To see is not to open your eyes,
it is to throw the white cane to one side:
to dare to walk
over the knowledge that you are lost.
There’s a split
in the word
a break where
each word quiets,
where all quieting creates;
it’s what in the uttering is breath
not of sound,
it’s where in each word
we hear ourselves revealed.
Day Is Born
Day is born
beneath a cloudless sky,
the clarity where all
what springs toward it,
and what its very light withers.
Every birthing asks for bareness,
just as love does,
just as death grants.
“Confession,” “Sunrise and Silence,” “Only at the End,” “In This Valley,” and “Boldness” translated by Arthur Dixon.
“VI” and “Day Is Born” translated by Katherine M. Hedeen.