As Much as Possible

I

Evening. High clouds, slow light: this brings back to the round year. Through the hour, others come back, just as blue. Once again, look.
Wisteria. Find again like believe grasp again. Calm and          blue here indeed though. Blue especially: the calm will follow shortly when there is such a blue, without wind.

Evening. Without end, eyes in the silent sky. One dissolves in the air, in the broken and powdered thickness of a single colour immensely thin and light, in an open sky.

//

Evening. Bells. Outside fits right between the absence of wind, these bells, and the light. Being so carried away by a ring of bells makes no sense, moved to the point of entering a usual resting sound and a sky on a calm evening, without beyond.

Evening. Of course, falling, and somehow words too, with it. One rushes into what passes by, a last minute collection at ground level, a movement hardly picking anything from the grass, maybe a bit of calm only or the smell of the earth in the progressing shadow.

//

Evening. Little to see except the lowering sky and light. Lose oneself and descend, slowly fall into the colour too light to carry more than the eye. Pass through the calm hue, something wrapping light not white but no longer really blue. Further away, there is nothing thick but almost without end a suite of blueish sails moving. No vertigo.

Evening. The sky drifts slowly and one passes through the weightless air, in the suddenly unbounded space of the word sky. All is at rest and one goes like one sleeps, without understanding what key has turned. Evidently, there is little time left: it is going to shut down again, there will be no more evening nor blue, just a dirty window, the night, the lamp.

II

Some months with grass and trees: passing. Words as well: the tightest ones become light, porous, crumbly. A few more years, and there will only be a sand beach or a dusty path.

The eye cannot linger long enough. One would like to see though, know the end of the grass: there is always enough left to continue.

//

is it the word
or the colour in the word
or the colour

something passing
very slowly fading
by dint of seeing

starting from pale
something becoming
green transparent-like

diluted in the light
the colour

infused
until it is almost nothing
but again grass
in the eye

III

The garden goes, the rest too, more or less quickly, always confused. Words are far less ahead than they are trailing behind. Trains, lines.

Flat weather. Contained liveliness of a closed day. Wandering.

The garden becomes a tense canvas, a front décor, an old screen with rose flower motifs, iris japanesery. And in the eye flowers no longer take over: just dirt, some poor graves, and rain.

Words keep moving, for whom one knows no more.

The light still vibrates for an eye staring, lingering in a space that is slowly shutting off. A head already in the shadow.

Perhaps one would need like a tongue of night, quickly slipping and glistening, fishes of words, rats in the mind.

IV

Decisive and clear, this light on the wisteria knocked around by the storm. What is left to be seen: tiny stems, leaves ruined by hail, fallen flowers, blue mud.

_

At least, find like an agreement with this corner of the earth, evening despite the dead and the idiocy and the rage. At least that, and then lay down on the grass or on the flat stones, pinkish slabs of clear green, and then sleep, let fatigue set in, let sleep set.

//

On the other side, the roof is slicing up the sky. A bit more and there will only be a cut of slate, a slab of night. Of course one can still look up, the eye passing over by the white strip right up on the roof, between the ridge and the darker sky. Of course, one can speak, and last.

On the aerial, there are no more birds.

//

A page furrowed with blackness, and the garden melting meanwhile.
In the words now, movement of the night earth, dark waves on the sand, and no wind.

_

It is always so off track.

//

One can set a wall, the shadow of a tree, as much as the sea or a chair, a night that keeps shutting up the day, or books, clouds and flowers, letters, children, or a window lit up on the other side, a naïve drawing left on an untidy table with red dead leaves, or a stone beach, short and steep, down a cliff… Incessantly one can let the memory of a single skin drip and, weary of being here, wait for what still keeps it from vanishing, maybe words, hardly any desire left except for a way out, a way to give in, and cease.

_

Sometimes, one manages to stand still, calm, and it is easier. Then, one would really like to durably retain the closest – but it leaves though, further away things words beings, leaking fleeing even the oldest heads in the ground or landscapes no longer existing, or views resumed in panic and blood. Sometimes, one would just like to stay there, tuck words in, and draw a heavy curtain right behind things, right up close. Nobody touches anything. And shut the eye.