park

the white light in the streets
bundles the city and in the park
above the paths where summer's burned
stand sails of smoke.
we'll sacrifice your chastity first, dearest
and get the gift of language in return
spent and relaxed the bodies lie
in the shade of speech.

 

feelings at windows

supplementary desire takes place when
ever desire itself adds that which
even fulfilment, if it existed, would lack.
when the unknown meshes with the absolute
in the mingling light at evening windows
and distance dissolves into expanse. i shout:
i want none of what i already know!

 

otherwise there's cold solitudes
like there's cold chicken in paris restaurants.

 

disembodiment

tapirs are complex minions of diligence.
the way they go about on low-down legs
with their much too dainty hooves –
parading penumbral beasts that send
gravity into a measured sway.
their tracks are surely indiscreet patterns
where those in the know
can decipher their only joy –
proceeding to mate with the utmost politeness.
but their voice, we are told, is a feeble zizuzizu
not unlike the squeaking of suspension coils.
sunday, get out of bed and off to the museum
where behind glass their wired skeletons
wait for the second lesson:
today the animals will learn from me
what it means to be anguished
but agile nonetheless.

 

the disciple

an obstinate disciple, so youthful
but the one whom jesus loved
who laid beside him at the last

kissing him was like kissing a door
slim flat stern with hinges on one side
but moveable on the other
how it swung open how we fell
there were boats and we took them
our nicotine-sour mouths in each other
like an element to shape something from –
the bitterness gathered in the hollows
when it wore off we smoked
in the end a rain fell
a rain we could barely believe
it turned cold, things got wet and everywhere
the shivering began – our
three-dimensional talk folded.

then the plain grew wide and dark
no one was left, not a sound to be heard

when i meet him again he can speak
i think he is my brother
say something, he says and i speak

 

Copyright © Monika Rinck and Nick Grindell, 2004.