the past is inexperienced
but it is the flower of translation,
returning to a scandal foreseen
flipping through fate in an almanac.
does not correspond to a fall or a harbor.
not something to be erased or placed in an envelope.
a pleasure-trip with loss, only
questions of words for a vagabond on a metaphoric bridge.
a document is not the event.
it declares its own film
beyond the molecules’ tapestry of stains.
the past molts its body
at every indefinite light, wracks its flair
for home. somewhere there is snow that arouses
the beginning of waiting in a cold arrival,
the origins of currents.
from “ the arterials”