Form
The mystery of what another man
sees
at the fall of a dress
separate sense
from the name "stefania."
Assassins
Where the move
to be here demands an undiscoverable
choice, sacred wait, season:
the shadows, in the listening,
at the edges of the face
stop in the solemnity
dividing dagger
from act.
Neither Point Nor Line
Like the drop, on the leaf, after the storm
only for the second time
he never knew anymore
because he wanted to be precise
till death
light zen, in the field,
the force that held the birds in flight
(an interrution and they would fall)
becomes the hell of counting them.
And The the Water
In the harvest too
the body was only lent
because it wanted to become
innocent in the end
and running
it didn't renounce
an anthology of gestures
the slender body
entering the princess's room
to love the first time.
Now she is unadorned
Now she is unadorned
and the years come to pass, in handfuls,
with the wit of shears and
an arrogance that draws
to the gas the mouth
persistent down to the spine
where it believes
or else the dead trudge toward a field
with a hollow head
and the myriads
hurl themselves into the baptism
for a breath.
_________________________
Milo De Angelis
Finite Intuition
Selected Poetry and Prose
Sun and Moon Press, 1995
