Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 2)

Before, my thoughts up there, then

They were so cold and sober:

‘I once signed my name across the sky, that day as I lay

upon the beach of Nice. The sky I since call mine

is what I will inhabit now, if only for a brief moment.

Without a parachute I stand

on the verge of the ever-vastest.

I happily proclaim ‘Take care!

as I catch air and air

will only touch me.’’

But I, the real I,

stood on the side, would never dare

to smear myself with paint, would rather

put on a tuxedo and white gloves, make the in-pieces-

lady-whole – a piece of art completed, under my control.

The shape of the body, its lines, its strange colours hovering

between death and life, the fires that burn the heart

hold for me no interest.

The leap off an old suburban house, a comment on the Front

Page of a mock Parisien daily France Soir.

I regret to reveal that she was not a part of my plan.

I created her death, I admit, but then I truly did not see her.

If so I would have said:

‘A little to the right,

over to the left’,

maintaining myself the one to crush.

An Olympic diver in his prime

avoiding so far falling

under the spell of that train-phenomenon dreams,

of brusque landings in the past

I was diving at last

into my birth-water.

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One thought on “Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 2)

  1. Reading New Meanings Into Old Poems.
    In Process of Letting Go(d).

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