To think of snowdrop cities,
Of cities dropping with snow
For your fingers.
I wanted to think
About white cities, about snow cities,
For these few stems – in frost – on your fingers
Instead of smiles that stay closed.
To think about white dawns, prisoners of the snows.
And about rains, rains, rains,
Slow, without consideration, drenched with gold,
Rains of snow
Like your roles, your flawless faces, learned by heart
leave you, betray you, undo you each day in the terrible silence of the rooms without a conclusion.
‘I wanted to say nothing.’
I wanted to think about prisoner cities
About those few words embroidered with snow, which
wander from the point.
I wanted to be quiet,
to be here – to be far,
in a body of suspended summers –
for your summers which live in me.
I wanted to think of white dawns, their heart – red – of snow,
I wanted to think your fury – white – on the grasshoppers of the breaking skies, of the skies that depart, that empty.
And of rains, rains, red rains
As the cities are embellished and are unembellished, rise, fall,
The white cities, the floating cities, the deep cities, the cities that don’t exist at the foot of the high red towers of your stormy rages that smell of red currants.
I wanted to plunge my fingers; to hold back nothing.
I wanted to think about moons
Of wounded moons, of dropped moons, of snowdrop moons,
Of moons of blood
For your nights that desert the faces, the hands and the lands, for your ochre and deserted nights.
I wanted to believe in suns of ink to crown your escapes.
I wanted to drink the suns; to be cold, wakeful.
I wanted to spit the moons: to burn cold.
I wanted to bewitch
the gardens of ochre joys and without refuge,
the hanging gardens of your joys and
to attract birds – silver birds – and moons carved of branched gold
of purple sleep.
I wanted to think the rooms,
The rooms asleep on the golden grasshoppers, the rooms where your footsteps awake,
To be there; to be far away.
To look, to see nothing.
To listen; to hear nothing.
To plunge my fingers; to soak.
To touch; to hold back nothing
of your songs that falter, sink.
in the high, red towers of storm.
To pray to the white dawns, to the prisoner dawns, to the dawns of snow
For the birds of your rage.
I wanted to be there; to dwell nowhere.
I wanted not to live in you.
To empty the clusters of the cold, the rocks of stars, in the bodies that grind your words
To listen, to hear nothing.
To look, to see nothing
To be there, to be far away.
I wanted to think of white cities, of deep cities, of prisoner cities,
I wanted to think of snowdrop cities, of cities dropping with snow, of cities of waking without refuge,
To be there, to dwell nowhere
To smile at the smiles that you would be given one day.