"River Seine"
'Then where's
the Word dawning, tell me, if not with Night
in its riverbed of tears,
Night that shows plunging suns the sown seed
over and over again?' Paul Celan
Somewhere
and asunder: a woman with mane
never to silver under love,
relaxes lips of Ukranian snow,
chokes no more on
the black thirst.
The Word is sodden.
Bread ducts, crumbs,
suck teat of thrusting aster, bright in the
glimmered taste.
Finds lips of Woman; plump there, clings,
drops to meal of seed, sublunar and free,
burrows in that deep nook.
From warm tract and steady climb:
climaxes a bell.
A distant clang but strident. Last supper call
for arcane acts: acoustics silenced to
bare thread, fibres lost to flame [crackle].
Comes with heavy tread. Stood in
the wormed mass: a people sleeping. Curlicued
in casting cud to search,
the deep particular.
A graveyard knows its voice,
but we are perturbed. By tender throatless
swallows nod-nodding.
Plucks a cluster pearl.
Mouths
to food's path. The body deciphers.
Belly wall secretions
know the breaking of the Word. Yes,
this man whose seed to spill
plants in sermon, untainted vow.
Somewhere and assunder:
weight of stone and stone's weight
dream unwreathed
in the Seine. Rising from ditch collaborations,
a united voice dawns over the Ukraine.
© 2007 Zefuyn (Melanie)
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