Slipway

On the dock, what duct-tapes his mouth shut is his breath.
To take, more closely, in this transformation, between his lips, growing cold, a guess—.
Choosing the winter on the lagoon isn't necessary, like the pale, hanging light after a storm.
It's not a question of memory, nor of her face losing its softness.
The estuary disappears behind his body, claimed by the wood.
The entire city, the whole bay, a wide & parallactic view.
Just barely, move over a bit, like tickling the hair on the man next to you.
That one—in the cold—your first contact with the jealousy of heat.

Fine hollow black lines, a long oblique gesture toward the ear.
Hermeticism on a black platform, in satchels, in bread.
Seeing that some red patches hang above the water, the city installed floodlights to light them up in the evening.
In the town, wind sweeps through the swinging door of the dark little station.
I recognize this face by chance, facing me, myself, like the spatial distortion of a bridge drawing near.
The moment is not chosen, nor the spatial distortion of the nearing bridge, nor the sinking cargo of first steps.
The square is skinned, deserted, not being the steep street nor the steps of the bridge.
Overview of a distracting sound.
Despite the face so close, despite the woods before me—
I still end up having to imagine them there.

Taken in this beam of light, I dive into the rosebushes.
These aren't the ones crawling out of the dream, but from the partition-citadel of childhood.
Drowning out sixty-odd years of things.
To get there, you have a weightlessness.
It's still technically the city at the bottom of the hill in the Eastern industrial district.
At one o'clock, there were eyes in the undergrowth of hazelnuts—
Now it's hard for me to no longer see them there.
Instead of being completely between the wooden slats, we hear to the side.
It must be the early fall, but these are not the same houses.


______________________________________

Kit Schluter is translator of Jaime Saenz's The Cold, (Circumference, forthcoming Summer 2013) and two books of Marcel Schwob, The Book of Monelle (Wakefield Press, 2012) and The King in the Golden Mask (Wakefield Press, forthcoming 2014). With the Philadelphia poet Andrew Dieck, he is co-editor of O'clock Press and its review of writtens, CLOCK. Slipway is a very free collage of vocabulary and imagery from his ongoing translation of Danielle Collobert's 1972 prosework, Dire 1.