Matt Aucoin

born: drops, of water, of



sliding, of walled air



deciding *through,*



* *



*through*: the bough



bows its gem-pimpled palm:



 



yielding, desertion, one



gesture, a fresco, the



 



three lives (chaos



clear flight and chaos) speak



 



*nothing*; *rustle*;



*nothing*: the hand



behind’s a master’s: look,



 



varnish in-



-visible, doorholding



air

Walking from where



eternity starts



 



eyes ahead 



you circle it 



  



how brief in noon did you bend to the eyeworn field washed with the dirt of sunlight, hold your breath as if to harden, ungleam, end into leaf, but you did not and sniffed the burngold air you stained, and passed on, leaving the field attentive, opener, as if it were suddenly the absence complementing a gone body and the snow starts shh 



  



*Fremd bin ich eingezogen,* 



*Fremd zieh’ ich wieder aus* 



  



A pace, a tread which says we will get nowhere but continue, a hymn living in the church of its tone, wandering, to fall exhausted into God’s lap



* *



*Nun ist die Welt so trübe,*



*Der Weg gehüllt in Schnee.*



* *



In the snow, in the woods, with not much moon, there are no shades of sound but terraces of it, precise as how glass shatters, and the wanderer’s steps, having been absent forever, speak. An overtone of the fact of this heartbeat is a melody like a faithful translation of past hope into the inevitable present pulse which goes nowhere and is true enough as to seem never to have started, always to have measured its minor syllable, a dragged foot long, through the snowreadied field which waited for it, the road like an abandoned attempt at exactly this. And the thought takes shape









*Ich kann zu meiner Reise*



*Nicht wählen mit der Zeit*



 



The way even this steamed mercuryline of song was long constructed by the cold, by the drying white throat of silence which oriented, at your steps, toward the hot black pupil of you. And what you give



words to had just



been said un-



-translated, I cannot



pick the time, then



you were propelled



up



to speak



 



*Muß selbst den Weg mir weisen*



*In dieser Dunkelheit*



 



But the way is already found and you sing to show the darkness a perfect darkness. Which does not lighten but keeps you a breath’s length from the world, where speech is. But farther, from the distance of music or the eye’s blackshone core, it is all unreal enough to be gray. But you find nothing. You dip yourself in brighter black so you will be lost and the same hand which mouths your words before you pour the hearthsmoke of breath into them will plot unfeeling the path you will feel.



 



*Und auf den weißen Matten*



 



Who hunted the deer whose tracks hunt and predict you



 



*Was soll ich länger weilen,*



*Daß man mich trieb hinaus?*



 



Here there is no away to be driven. For passing your hand through the tones around black as through shades of water you pass through black again, so that black comes to be only where you walk from and where, you keep remembering, you are going. The farmhouse is an accident, the gold of its eyes glancing away and going out, a face, did you call for it? You cannot fix its gaze.



 



That the modulation from minor to major is the most painful one. Achieved by wincing into surplus a pool which accumulated,



                                  unnoticed,



                                  to brimming,



                                  nightlong. The listener’s face is loose, open, and the eyes blacken and wet to match the dark or breathe in it, the cheeks hang around the set jaw of the minor third. And it expands and the listener cracks into an



                                                   instant of



                                                   smile, that



                                                   shatter and



                                                   diminuendo



                                                   of ache, one streak



                                                   of exiled sunlight. How much he smiles through. The pool spills.



 



*Will dich im Traum nicht stören,*



*War Schad an deiner Ruh*



 



I could not disturb



your dreaming you will



not hear my steps



 



The door touches



the frame and makes dark and



I wake and start



wandering and



I write, above, good night, no, there is



no above night, I write



                         good night out of night’s



                         ink on night’s



                         fabric so you will know



                         I thought of you, no so



                         my breath pads the black



 



 



 



 



 



 



 



 



 



 



 

Music finds me twenty miles down silence



Where I burrow almost



Cruelly, there it enters



The recesses I have cut, it says see this is just



Like anywhere



I can fill it



 



I say thanks music you are



The final touch



As you also were the first



But please not too much you draw me



Out of myself and all I am



Is you cheerful



 



In your soil under my blade



Leaking into the vessels



You fill before they were ever



Empty, you my body,



I am greater I wrestle you



Under the border



 



Below which is not your kingdom



Though you were born there:



The way you fall there



Is like remembering



I like this and keep digging



 



You do not mind



And moonlit nights you raise



Your watersnake head out of the lower kingdom



Into yours, there you resemble me



Double and quiet, sharp for there is



Not much of you, making an eye



 



Out of what you aren’t,



Night’s inner face how



Could it not examine you,



Whitehead like bride’s hair



In waves the color of waiting



You wait expecting home



 



And are gone



 



And it is grander,



Sky calling *stranger*,



Waves you made uneasy



In their stomachs, moon



That almost answered,



Even I have to thank you: for your spilling



 



As if into my eye’ s unlit



Socket expanded it



And in your passing I am cold



And larger, and the sky



Never held such memory,



So empty a moment, such



 



Future to fill

For S.P.—



 



Open ocean



falls closing into



the white past dark blue



 



where bound, in sand,



in sun, blood, we lie



unopened: five years



 



of love – still



it runs caught: every cell



is a blue diver falling



 



the volume under papyrus stretched,



its inner face bathed as in tea –



to look old? You look



lived in, like home



                                       till



the diver surfaces, volume



unbinds – till the page



cracks, read –



                             the ocean has never



opened –



 



the tea leaves its leaves



            (the waves turn over)



the sea leaves and leaves



            (almost in sleep)



we leave love

Shards of exact memory,



masters of local



magnitude, keepers



of untranslating



logic where



eternity is



a wandering here —



these twining parallel



blindnesses



in future-outpacing



angles spelling



disintegration



of great intelligence:



carefullest madness,



black on blue,



black on clear, memory



everywhere proving



life whose will



still they scrawl still



they carve this easiest



element with fleet



illegibles



in circleshaming



precision — bright-black



eyes — and



at evening by



the cathedral rouse



thick air as if



around vanished



scaffoldings and night



expands the gaps



they are: lost



arrows halftracing



a sphere: all clockwise:



yet some hover:



yet some wander



over what border:



and hourly unities



inarguable as breath



shift the frame, smooth



the canvas: here



an absent entirety



flickers: will they



sing



 

 



Not that we love order

the skeleton but o –

o if outside this room it

carved up such fruits, such

pulp between the beats –





And then the stretch of road

we needed has been swallowed – still

we turn, twisting our seatbelts at

the neck, and point. The grey sky there

is not the chaos we need to make

*that* point and still the sun with

uncanny execution acts

its ancient orchestrations – “there are

conductorless ensembles,” says

the conductor, “that play so beautifully

and yet I miss that hand and

I wish–”

          and do we need to wish?

stamp speaking faces on a grid

all blank arpeggiation, bright

thoughtless precise

display?

              Then the sun

too would have to speak

clearly in a prologue to

the grass *on cue you’ll die

over and over* or else the grass

did say the same

at the same time or

else a whistle-camera-pistol-

-memo flown to all: *on cue you’ll live

over and over and as well

at your convenience die but that

is not my area*



                                In the room the numbers

                                attend their coming colors.

                                The soft old man stands up.

                                He holds a bass clarinet.

                                He listens then he listens louder.

            after Henri Matisse



 



I.



Hope of the boy’s



hidden hands that they meet



 



at the final triangle’s



point, the key



 



II.



The twice-painted women



are strung silent.



 



The boy sits in air’s



clear fire between



 



wrought music stand,



wrought railing. The scene



 



orients around



the unseen bodiless



 



dancer the women



are bodies of.



 



III.



The wrought railing



strains for the world



of green the world



of time – in this house



 



sheer cliffs, the window’s



slice of green a slice



of time, a sharp absent



point on the burnt piano-top



where the metronome mocks



the candle, taps



its own candlelife out



in unlovely coughs



as the candle lost



in its shining locks



is too much song,



is not hope



 



IV.



The two mothers guard



the depthless walls



of the past he purges



now in song:



 



with the rest



of the brightened dead



they inhabit hope –



 



V.



And now his fierce eye



confounds its shape



in a shadow honing



 



into evening,



narrowing, lengthening



into nothing



 



VI.



Must I misshape time?



To another canyon,



another imagined point?



 



O say the boy’s hands,



strong with gathered gaze,



meet that backwards eye