{"id":3587,"date":"2018-01-28T14:02:08","date_gmt":"2018-01-28T22:02:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/?page_id=3587"},"modified":"2026-04-19T10:23:19","modified_gmt":"2026-04-19T17:23:19","slug":"first-lines","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/first-lines\/","title":{"rendered":"First Lines"},"content":{"rendered":"

Lines are links<\/strong><\/p>\n

A cat allowed her table scraps<\/em><\/a>
\n A creek whose gush<\/a><\/em>
\n A flourish of blossom and bloom<\/a><\/em>
\n A flower in flight, the hummingbird\u00a0<\/a><\/em>
\n A German shored up in the highlands of Michoac\u00e1n<\/a>
\n<\/em>A red-tail hawk lifts off<\/a>
\n\u00c0 Sarreguemines en France
\n<\/a>A snap can\u2019t catch them but the eye can see<\/a><\/em>
\n Abraham, when called upon<\/a><\/em>
\n After tossing and turning I cloak up<\/a><\/em>
\n At the end of every storm we\u2019ve grown used to
\n<\/a>Big trees grew <\/a><\/em>smaller, small ones big
\n<\/a>Call it a fluke<\/a><\/em>
\n Capitachouane, Saskatchewan: tchewan means river
\n<\/a>Climbing the fence to your cemetery<\/a>
\n<\/em>Caught in an endless loop<\/a>
\nDawn at Delphi. Goat bells clustering
\n<\/a>Day sheds its sheath of light
\n<\/a>Death is Greek to me, a tongue\u00a0I must learn
\n<\/a>Der Tod ist uns Bahnhof
\n<\/a>Dichten ist schrecklich
\n<\/a>Die Sternbilder sind leer
\n<\/a>Don\u2019t say in what suburb live Lea\u00a0or Jill
\n<\/a>Down the well I threw a stone. No splash returned
\n<\/a>Dreams, they say, repeat till understood<\/a><\/em>
\n Drowsiness. A travel book. Stone bastions
\n<\/a>Early or late you woke
\n<\/a>Earth for others, home is scaffolding
\n<\/a>Earthlings we are, so clouds we keep making
\n<\/a>Ein Z\u00fcndholz, dessen Flamme<\/a><\/em>
\n Flashes of chaff in the sweet summer night
\n<\/a>For Ulli and Claudia<\/a><\/em>
\n Forty is when to build a house
\n<\/a>From sleep the foiled lover fought
\n<\/a>High in the Sierra the Interstate
\n<\/a>Hold still, I know it hurts
\n<\/a>How lucky water freezes
\n<\/a>I don\u2019t want anyone to know
\n<\/a>I saw Mother, captive gorilla<\/a><\/em>
\n I suffer Father\u2019s infirmities, gas, bad back
\n<\/a>I want no stone nor gilded urn
\n<\/a>I was a boy myself once so\u00a0don’t need
\n<\/a>It took years
\n<\/a>Ich komme aus dem Staunen nicht mehr heraus<\/a>
\n<\/em>Imaginary you!\u00a0 <\/span>You are not what I think<\/a>
\nIn honour of Bloom, the house will supply
\n<\/a>In that forest too sad for birds<\/a><\/em>
\n Is that a boy or a girl?<\/a>
\nIsn’t war itself a crime?<\/a>
\n<\/em> Landing at night on a motherboard<\/a><\/em>
\n Last weekend an old friend of my age
\n<\/a>Let that robin come down like an idle thought
\n<\/a>Light scatters through frail leaves in bay windows<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>
\nLike a pesky gnat waking me from a nap<\/a><\/em>
\n Loss of memory short-term — a boon in disguise!
\n<\/a>Loud as a plane overhead he heard his own thoughts<\/a>
\n<\/em>Memory is<\/a>
\n Mother taught me to fry an egg when I was fifteen
\n<\/a>Mon chat protocolaire attend\u00a0patiemment
\n<\/a>Moist Maoist
\n<\/a>Must I find my body in a book<\/a><\/em>
\n My gawky juvenilia, inspired by vernal bliss
\n<\/a>Not unlike Provence, this sheen off a sea<\/a>
\n<\/em>Not sloth but thought of you keeps me abed<\/em><\/a>
\n<\/em> Nothing special can be done for us now<\/a><\/em>
\n O bulbous periwinkle, sunk in sodden goldenrod
\n<\/a>Of the winding paths the mind\u2019s eye<\/a><\/em>
\n On the less off than before<\/a><\/em>
\n Once they are with me I know they belong<\/a><\/em>
\n Open wide the window which gives to the sun
\n<\/a>Our self-restraint appalls me<\/a><\/em>
\n Parchment parasols. Butterflies along the path<\/a><\/em>
\n Poetry is sometimes too much with us<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>
\nPartial eclipse this afternoon<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>
\nPistachios of the sea piled high in heaps
\n<\/a>Poor moth, flown in a door left ajar
\n<\/a>Qu\u00e4lend aus der Puppe<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>
\nRainbows burgeoned over the old apricot<\/a><\/em>
\n Raised with roaches, I warmed to the tropics
\n<\/a>Rare, the shrill coyote bark\u2019s become
\n<\/a>Rocks are the way to the river<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>
\nSad to be a child<\/a><\/em>
\n Simplicity. Ease. We come together<\/a><\/em>
\n Sit still during earthquakes<\/a><\/em>
\n So the shutter not stir and shame you<\/a><\/em>
\n So this is what looking old is
\n<\/a>Steam from the power plant, vapourising<\/a><\/em>
\n Strange act of love, this rambling enumeration
\n<\/a>Time is an illusion God
\n<\/a>The answer is yes. Real, too<\/a><\/em>
\n The apples blossomed first. The old apricot\u2019s
\n<\/a>The gauze frost has laid
\n<\/a>The moon is warm tonight
\n<\/a>The Russian she spoke could have been Persian
\n<\/a>The sun rounds a fulcrum fixed
\n<\/a>Then she left, undoing strands twined by hand<\/a><\/em>
\n They snipped out my tubes<\/a><\/em>
\n This afternoon has the weight of crumb<\/a> <\/em>
\n Through Michoac\u00e1n where clouds make up<\/a><\/em>
\n Tomatillo in Nahuatl was tom\u0101tl<\/a><\/em>
\n Turns out he is a sweet enough guy
\n<\/a>The thrush that sings at night’s returned<\/a><\/em>
\n These marbled pinkish beans are beautiful<\/a><\/em>
\n This afternoon has the weight of crumb
\n<\/a>Thrice this dreary winter I\u2019ve dreamed
\n<\/a>Trapped in sleep, we must attend to dream
\n<\/a>Turn not your eyes, leaves though they be<\/a><\/em>
\n Was I more psycho- than sociopath?
\n<\/a>We who left home, left before we knew it
\n<\/a>What has grazed against the sky and left
\n<\/a>We who speak of aging as a curse<\/a><\/em>
\n Wet pavement, jazz, some place to beat off<\/a><\/em>
\n We went to spot a trogon and I began to hum
\n<\/a>What is\u00a0not\u00a0ephemera?<\/a><\/em>
\n When it comes to incinerating
\n<\/a>When you feel like a fish, check the weather to see<\/a><\/em>
\n Where do sunflowers turn after dark?
\n<\/a>Who knows mid what clatter
\n<\/a>Why does purr rhyme with fur?<\/a><\/em>
\n Write woman’s words on water swift
\n<\/a>You make me focus. I\u2019ve never been flung afar
\n<\/a>Young, I hadn\u2019t the faintest notion
\n<\/a>Vor dem trockenen Gr\u00fcnen Veltliner<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lines are links A cat allowed her table scraps A creek whose gush A flourish of blossom and bloom A flower in flight, the hummingbird\u00a0 A German shored up in the highlands of Michoac\u00e1n A red-tail hawk lifts off \u00c0 Sarreguemines en France A snap can\u2019t catch them but the eye can see Abraham, when … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “First Lines”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

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