“Ritournelle 6,” ” Ritournelle 7,” and “Ritournelle 8”

drops fell, as hand let go of hand, light rain

to begin, then the long hours pouring down, drenched,

to the skin it’s said, far from your bed, from hers,

the wet ground between them growing the distance,

creeping up through your shoes :

the sound, sound of it, soft at first,

as of light falling, refreshing the eye, brightening

the dullness of the day, deemed to be so,

as to be different, infinitely other,

or the premonition of it, promise of it, presumption

as to some other outcome, incursion of eros, say,

first drops of desire, fresh against your face, your hand

held out, as if forever, gathering them in :

to be out in it, drowned in it, lean into it

as it streams down, seeps into the earth, soaks

soil and soul, runs from every roof, screens

the horizon itself, curtains the certainties, the dry

destinations of your eyes :

your hand remembering them, the hands let go,

remembering, warm in your bed of words,

your way through the rain

start from the immediate, the matter at hand,

what little the eye sees of all there is,

on the way through, the white paper that receives it,

pause, between cup and lip, the morning coffee,

light drug of a possible enlightenment, you know,

that essential, come to be called, can’t do without,

as the words for your wandering, the near silence

of sitting quietly writing, that madness,

first felt, free of its definition,

then : Echo trying to find your Narcissus,

to be one again with the said,

as a bird with itself, of a sudden,

beyond the window :

there was always a window, of which

birds know nothing, but a barrier,

that invisible something in the way of flight,

that every thought comes up against,

the glaze of meaning, the slight loss

of light, here in the morning, before it’s open(ed),

the simple act of getting up from where you are,

from the table in front of the wall, walking to it,

opening it wide, to breathe in

the air out there

everything become solitary and slow, as thought is,

the tempest passed, the rainstorm dried, only

the softness of sand and your progress through it,

the tide subsided now : it’s quiet, all but

silent : time to listen

to time undoing itself, the thread at the sea’s edge

loosening, the hem coming undone, your steps

whispering to themselves, lifting the grains

then letting them go, so lightly,

so much matter gathered there to be sifted,

sewn again and again in seeming perpetuity,

your feet finding their rhythm, feeling

for the counterpoint, your place

in the fabric, the furl of the world, your pitch,

your presence there, or the words for it :

a moment’s pause, and the sea asserts itself,

something stirs, some shift or turn in the deep,

or phase of the moon, and the thought

falls away, falls away, falls away :

you’re standing there, still now, staring out,

your feet sinking softly into the sand