If my hand touches your skin,
instant accidents happen: unexpected
flowers bloom, earthquakes,
fires, revolutions perhaps,
sudden climate changes, delays
in train times, people
urgently kissing in the streets. We’ve
witnessed it: the solar explosion
of precise things, the road opening to the heart
of all beginnings. This is your skin
where my hand, barely touching
it, will feel unknown landscapes of flesh and
from where your eyes come back, two deep
lakes, two restless headlights slicing
the night, regardless of how often Adorno
may have said that lyrical poetry no longer
befits the world. If Adorno himself
had ever touched your skin, he would have climbed down
from his entrenched conviction and asked poets
to tell, once again, the world
that begins in your skin. Trees grow close
to the timid miracle of its tremor,
rivers run from a spring
as you lift your eyes. An immensity
so like the sea when you slowly move, or
when you hesitate, distracted in your pacing. A
moon rises when you speak, and the night
slightly darkens when you leave. If I could
inhabit you like a house perched
on a mountain slope or like a thoughtful
fisherman watching the sea from a quiet shore,
if I knew how to keep you in the morning, as
the flower keeps the dew, or hold you
as a fruit is held in a child’s hand, I would
set off through the hurried ways and settle
in you as in my homeland. The promised
land to which I could return, and where
at length I’d build my house. But I
look. I look around and see
you are not there. It was only the dream of you
and, waking, I realise the abrupt
illusion of fantasy. I raise
my unconvinced hand towards the ever-
lasting bookcase looking for Aesthetic
Theory. I leaf through it, distractedly,
feeling the most lyrical sorrow of being.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
If my hand touches your skin,
instant accidents happen: unexpected
flowers bloom, earthquakes,
fires, revolutions perhaps,
sudden climate changes, delays
in train times, people
urgently kissing in the streets. We’ve
witnessed it: the solar explosion
of precise things, the road opening to the heart
of all beginnings. This is your skin
where my hand, barely touching
it, will feel unknown landscapes of flesh and
from where your eyes come back, two deep
lakes, two restless headlights slicing
the night, regardless of how often Adorno
may have said that lyrical poetry no longer
befits the world. If Adorno himself
had ever touched your skin, he would have climbed down
from his entrenched conviction and asked poets
to tell, once again, the world
that begins in your skin. Trees grow close
to the timid miracle of its tremor,
rivers run from a spring
as you lift your eyes. An immensity
so like the sea when you slowly move, or
when you hesitate, distracted in your pacing. A
moon rises when you speak, and the night
slightly darkens when you leave. If I could
inhabit you like a house perched
on a mountain slope or like a thoughtful
fisherman watching the sea from a quiet shore,
if I knew how to keep you in the morning, as
the flower keeps the dew, or hold you
as a fruit is held in a child’s hand, I would
set off through the hurried ways and settle
in you as in my homeland. The promised
land to which I could return, and where
at length I’d build my house. But I
look. I look around and see
you are not there. It was only the dream of you
and, waking, I realise the abrupt
illusion of fantasy. I raise
my unconvinced hand towards the ever-
lasting bookcase looking for Aesthetic
Theory. I leaf through it, distractedly,
feeling the most lyrical sorrow of being.
