2 septembre 2009 0h52 · Léonard Constant
Here is the season gathered in the
grain
the sway of millet pools where meals are moored
the godsoaked cantor tugging on the rain
the goatmilk sour in the herdsman’s gourd
the bed of sweet maturanguru leaf
the sacred sliver of a rusted plane
to map your unlocateable belief—
and here my paper airstrip in your plain
and here my fortune-cookie palanquin
and here the kleenex lyric of my trade
the concert-hall confessions of my kin:
a poachress cuts your lonely sturgeon
bead
and all my cartoon-poet twists of shade
are useless as your elders make you read
the fingerprints of god upon the blade.
(janvier 2004)
