I think of you.

Tired out with being love, you’d like to rest for a while.
So many things have needed you to be dawn,
and, being dawn, to break.

Words, magnetised to darkness, repel you.
The brilliance of the morning passes, the words come back in,
it’s you they are attracted to.
So many words have needed you to be night,
and, being night, to fall.

I think of you.

Tired out with being human, you’d like to rest for a while.
But, falling and breaking, these things take time.
And so much time has needed you, and so little time,
the brilliance of the morning passes
almost unnoticed between the talcum, nappies and the sea.

The brilliance of the night passes.
Words, asters and mirrors connect the clock to my lips,
and I think of you.
Beached ships, and days of deserts,
tired out with being morning, you want to rest for a while.
But where can you rest? —
not even in my thoughts of you
which, being noon, strikes at midnight, and the turning stars.

The sea, talcum, nappies —
the clock of my lips whirs, Isaac is back in town.
Tired out with being Isaac, tired out with time,
you want to be Albert for a while, or Nils.
And could you cease, and my thoughts of you begin,
could you rest when I begin to think of you,
I’d share your life,
which, being shared, would not be yours.

The brilliance of mirrors fades.
The tangerine asters are not model suns,
rehearsed in the glass, with all the letters reversed.
So many things have needed to part you,
you want to rest for a while;
tired out with being needed so by death,
you want, finally, to die.

And I don’t think of you.
The asters, leant against Orion, and the fragrant Crusoe’s footsteps
across the island of 4 a.m., talc on the bathroom floor —
so many partial things have needed you to be whole,
so many partial words,
they break you — and, in the breaking, dawn.

You think of me.

The brilliance of time passes.
Tired out with being Nils, you want to be César for a while,
or William. So much darkness has needed you,
such whole darkness has needed you to fall
and to call yourself the night,
that you think of me, you do so very softly,
as you think of daylight stars.

You call yourself the night.
And tired out with being love, you rest for a while.
So many things have ceased to live for you,
so many fragments been born from you,
I’ll call this poem Aubade,
and write it in April, in the afternoon.

You call yourself the night.
I call the night, Aubade.

I think of you.

Advertisements