New World

New World

Here the minimalist sky.
Here antelope (pronghorns) and the burnt,
high-plains grasses
bound to the edge of the compound,
the edge of town the edge of, the edge of.
Here glints polish the air to gold.
The antelopes and the few stunted trees
dream about Jonah in the belly of the sky.
Let's have nothing
but gold-it's so pleasing.

One night a man took out an accordion.
So loud, the instrument in this night and so many
romantic waltzes that I wept just
outside the fire's circle of light.

I knew a lot, once.
Wasn't Naturalism about to happen?
And really, the French and the English
why should they quit-a battle here, one there,
and their navies refulgent?
And Levinas, saying such things:
"the night is the very experience of the there is"?
Once I knew
that pastries could have a thousand leaves.
The bishop wore a fabulous hat and forks and knives
were polished monthly, to meditate
in their velvet boxes.

Here the sky cares only about
being blue and large and represents nothing
but itself. The doves ask "who cooks for you?'
(in the translations)
and scorpions sleep in your shoes.
Us, we go along
inventing new ways to die:
by the cutting off of hands,
of hair, death by one dirty blanket and
death by walking.
Death by six pine nuts, by bloody
sunset, by obscure mirage.


Connie Voisine
Posted over on Campbell Corner