NEIGHBOURS

1

a tasty death is cooking in your pot next door
in your neighbour’s grate
a pine log quietly incinerates a hundred years

summer’s always gloomy　　like walls that succour ivy
yet the road goes through fire to winter’s end

looking out from fire　　windows
still wash the dim night clean one by one
the pines’ clipped iron shadows stand outside the window
revising your skeletons

green sun bursts into stones without knocking
the vicious scene when one word bursts into two poems
affirms　　the poet’s dislocated mouth
you look like fish all barbecued together

2

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　in another time
sky’s heavy blue　　rams birds into the clay
twilight a diligent saw on the branches
tree stump’s tragic smile　　a powerless revenge

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　in a time that separates us
a skeleton-shaped table squeezes up to another
the dead who never left
like lamps　　silently explode in the pinecones
shake bats’ downy jetblack ears

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　another moment
we are still this silent unfinished work
rammed into the clay by each voice　　left
to be a one-word today
to be a famous tongue that once crawled on antique china

3

to be forgotten is good fortune　　she says
let those who don’t know weariness learn to remember

every woman begins by touching her body
she says　　all dark wisdom coincides with corruption

blood　　lights the last candle
then the purple night sky starts spinning wounds

a maggot digging a tunnel conceals a tiny death
trapped, hibernating death

a dead woman　　like an unread author
walks about downstairs pregnant with a secret child

angels　　bats with wizened paps　　draw in their wings
hang upside down beneath snow-white skin

she says　　the murderous hand is tired of being lent
boredom is the only bed

on the little lake the watersnakes come and go
she stands on the bank　　is moonlight unconcerned with itself

when a lunar eclipse touches flesh a black swamp seeps out
　　so a woman changes into something else

4

closest to the dead is a poem by someone living
a possible grave hidden in the sky
like an impossible attic　　locked in the dust
spider or fly corpses
carved boxes designed for ghostly living
until my hand　　opens the chance-left fingerprints
mice on the stair stepped on and revived

light woken a century past
is squeaking　　cuts down the poet’s crazy shadow
cloud standing on the slates
in the habit of mouldering into a grey-white ankle
a single recitation closest to the living
that like relics casually checks my fingers
has shown　　the shame we all should feel

5

our flesh bricked up the windowsill
from the flame　　we watch a pine log catch flame
a curled-up wrist
twitch　　shiver　　abruptly stretch out wild beast’s claws

flame and flame forged in a mirror
let all that’s sunk deep in mercury
be scraped out by sight　　we stand outside our own windows

with a chisel of nothingness carve out a face
keenly-honed face　　tongue rising in a carved vase
as the sound of the wind multiplies in the throat　　is gripped in a vice
a poet　　like used-up afterbirth　　is shed by the poem

the earth’s red iron gates are always clanging shut at our ear
tombstones　　more famous than us
fat feast of corpses
the eyes revealed on either side of a century are twins

were crazy　　wrote nothing down
were only then carved out by what died in our hearts

only then soliliquised　　only then feared the cold
grabbed the cards with claws of flame and of wild beasts　　a playing card
separates two wounds watching each other　　us