Pierre Martory, p.3



Black and green minute, in wave, ending in
Two bending hands of cellophane,
Like flowers without water.

Space of my eyes, you impose locks
Of silence on the parallel streams of escape:
The certitude of a sympathy is acquired for me.

And when I open like a curtain
My fingers of flesh, someone could laugh:
He has lost. I invented myself a friend
        Without a face.


Offshore, silver galleons drop anchor
Without rippling the surface of the port of all graces
And the second ship stops, its sails still.
That is not a reflection, but a
Tangible and real hull illuminated by murkiness
Held under the other like a mouth to a mouth,
More than a sister, the same hull.

Without soliciting the precise shape,
By the miracle of giving over to the purity of parallelisms,
The harmonious unity is realized.
And not the iodized material of the joists,
Remaining, after set suns, vague and distant,
But that eternal duality without hyphen,
That mouth in that mouth.