tynos


across from the tables of cafe number one
across from the coloured tables and the trees
someone lies in bed, behind a wall of glass.
the lady tidies the sheets, comes out to wash the steps.
who is it? i don't know, but my heart aches for this, this:
to die with the waves flecked with blossoms
to die with the trees white with weddings
to be weeded from the garden in the brown bake of day
while the wind rattles the poppy gourds like bones
and the lines of white tablecloths twist and turn:
to die white as marble beneath the brown earth of flesh
while the waiters, the sailors, the mourners
furl and shroud, sails sheets and canopies:
one hand, one dark shadow,
one face above white sheets
encased in glass, casting no reflection:
to die in this room, this sealed box,
across the street from this cafe under laden trees,
the winds gossip, the green tables,
this room facing the church of the annunciation
where the silver icon dies under glass
drowned in silver offerings
dulled by deep lulling chants
deaf to the windshaken bells,
eyes of silver, brazen heart,
heart broken by bells:
to die to ache forever
because of the half-smelt herbs
smell of flowers as soon remembered as forgotten
whipped out of reach of memory by the turning
screw of the wind:

to die with the windows closed
with the sunlight and the want of trees
forever just beyond feel beyond sense:
to die like an icon
imprisoned in silver in the secret dark of the altar,
word become flesh, flesh become thing, beaten
silver under glass, trapped, hidden by gifts:
here we are so silted up by the seas presents
a dredger rumbles night and day in the harbour’s throat
yet how can we pass outward if we are clogged and caught?
without such endless dredging how can we clear the narrows
to where the sea ends and our water runs out
and the earth takes first the brown flesh
and then the silver bones?