Matière de Bretagne

by Emily

Paul Celan

Gorselight, yellow, the slopes
fester heavenward, a thorn
woos the wound, bells are tolling
inland, it’s evening, nothingness
swells its seas to devotions,
the blood sail bears down on you.

Parched, the riverbed
silted behind you, its hour
choked by reeds, up above
near the star, the milky
channels gab in the mud, stone-mussels
tufted below gape into the blue, a bush
of transience, beauteous,
greets your memory.

(Did you know me,
hands? I walked
the forked path you pointed out, my mouth
spat its gravel, I walked, my time,
a wandering snow-wall, cast its shadow — did you know me?)

Hands, thorn
wooing the wound, bells tolling,
hands, nothingness, its seas,
hands, in gorselight, the
blood sail
bears down on you.

You
you teach
you teach your hands
you teach your hands you teach
you teach your hands
to sleep

I’m still on this kick. Sorry if you weren’t prepared. Read his work in quiet, with focus.

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