day 123

SUMMER_BED

MOUTHS, world-tongues, in the scissure of living: you leave
Dried wounds in my heart.
You leave.

Sun-reflection Void-face. up.
(Blind spots littering breath. BLOOD in splitter.
Soul forming rings, ready to burst into the sky.
Multiple fingers shadow, clamped - slit.)

MOUTHES, world-tongues,
living the scissure of living,
tongues tongues:

The summer-bed behind us both, the summer-bed.
Air on air,
rises high as imagination, we rise,
we rise and disappear as she imagines.

And rise:
We wiil be. We are.
We are separate flesh after the day.
Without the passages, pass-ages. Past pages.

- Paul Celan in retrospect