PASTORAL
I
15 meters from the road to Batuan, there is a dike on a river’s edge, and
the din of someone driving away birds,
someone wading down to the river, singing,
someone tasting the stream,
trailing the sound
of cold’s smacking
on the pores of the forest,
currents that comb the boulders,
boulders which, like the shoulders of an ox, hold you back.
At 7:15, the river limpid disrobes you
II
Sometimes I want
us to vanish like a pair of lizards
in wild grass
like luster—
III
Perhaps the time has come
for us to let words
be bewitched by the spread of moss
or by torrents
and furrows
that shrivel
Perhaps the time has come
for us to be bewitched
IV
Meanwhile in the south
hay has been stacked,
and folks are busy
driving away birds,
“Hai! Hai! Hai!”
A row of storks
punches its bulbous white
on rice
V
Tell me, why upon your perfect body,
the river doesn’t seem to touch
a thing?
VI
Perchance tied is
lotus
to water
Perchance tied is
water
to green
Perchance tied is
eternity
to leaf
I still fear
death’s acrid odor
at nightfall
like sin
VII
Seconds are thorns
that spread
into mid October
and so the day itches,
and death descends,
upon the watch that weaves cotton
into dew
VIII
When you touch the petals of putrimalu
you see
the stems of time
IX
The transient
cannot hold on to
stars lost
in the Milky Way
That which quivers
will be erased
Those who make love
will cease to make love
But I remember a poem
that pleads: “Lay your sleeping head, my love,
human on my faithless arm”
X
The next day, someone sends a postcard to the hut:
“I like Malacca. The walls of the Portuguese,
the street in early morning’s rumble,
old roof-tiles on a Chinese warehouse,
the port’s curvature, the colour of ships, and food stalls.”
That someone does not give a name.
XI
Maybe indeed there is a city,
so faraway. Or a bay
so faraway
Hmm . . .
What is the meaning of an end?
XII
15 meters from the road to Batuan, there is a dike
on a river’s edge. Sometimes I want
us to fall, like butterflies falling
from a branch
before the certainty of death
