Landscape

No-man kneads us again out of Earth and Loam, no-man spirits our Dust. No-man. Praise to you

The linethat remained, thatbecame true: . . . yourhouse in Paris — becomethe alterpiece of your hands. Breathed through thrice, shone through thrice.………………. It's turning dumb, turning deafbehind our eyes.

I can still see you: an Echo, to be touched with Feeler-Words, on the Parting-Ridge. Your face softly shies away, when all at once there islamp-like brightnessin me, at the Point

Snowfall, denser and denser, dove-coloured as yesterday, snowfall, as if even now you were sleeping. White, stacked into distance.

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundownwe drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at nightwe drink it and drink itwe dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfinedA man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writeshe…

She combs her hair, like the dead are combed, She carries the blue fragments under her robe. She bears the fragment-world on a single skein. She knows the words, but she only beams.

With every Thought I wentout of the World: there you were, you my Gentle One, you my Open One, and –you received us. Whosays that for us everything died, that for us there the Eye broke?

The Polesare within us, insurmountablewhile Awake, we sleep across, to the Gateof Mercy, I lose you to you, thatis my Snow-Comfort, say, that Jerusalem is, say, as if I were thisyour Whiteness