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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535606" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Instead Of You Today One Black Mouse</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Instead of you today<br>one black mouse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It arrives the first<br>day of your departure.<br>It catches the corner <br>of my eye, my blood eye, <br>as you call it, and I <br>think at first that this <br>is only sunlight reflecting<br>from a window being closed <br>across the street but <br>my beating heart, faster, <br>holding my breath, tells<br>me it is a mouse that<br>precedes its smell in <br>the house, that is, if<br>it takes up residence, <br>and the curtains remain<br>permanently closed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I do nothing but note<br>all this as briefly as <br>the flash, then return<br>to my grieving.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see it true, <br>a mouse true, as<br>was and is the <br>affection I felt <br>and feel for you <br>but I do not want <br>to make this a <br>love poem unless<br>it is to a black<br>mouse claiming<br>vacated space</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You must leave now, <br>black mouse of sorrow, <br>now formally named, <br>take up in another<br>residence. Do not<br>borrow my things, <br>do not move them<br>with your tail or tongue<br>or teeth on the table<br>top or underneath, <br>nor in the corner<br>play hide and seek<br>where I have once<br>again dropped the<br>blue accident of love, <br>he who has left how<br>he arrived, brown, <br>beautiful, smelling of<br>Indian spice, of rose<br>oil with herbs, <br>his long black hair, <br>his silken pockets<br>full of childhood<br>prayer carefully<br>wrapped for safe-<br>keeping against<br>the day of his glad-<br>marry..</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the altar then<br>do not, I plead, sleep<br>cradled in the god's arms<br>nor push my thinning<br>patience where the votive<br>candle burns for him whom<br>you seek to replace with<br>your delicate whiskers<br>and all your black fur<br>with webs upon of the one<br>spider who dwells behind<br>the jewel box, his gift<br>for me, his leaving, here<br>cling/brush against all<br>things in this dark place<br>now but do not let me<br>see it here where it is<br>I-not-he who is erased.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is it your wish, then, <br>to bless me, black mouse? <br>to keep me company? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Today I suffer my<br>annual asthma of <br>the New Year only <br>it has arrived hard, <br>a little late, but<br>always sudden but <br>no surprise as you <br>have left me at the <br>same time as the <br>on-time lessening <br>of lungs down presses. <br>The mouse arrives to <br>remind that I am as<br>the remote air is, <br>rarefied, heavily alive, <br>that hunger grows in each <br>floret of the lungs <br>no matter the absence. <br>Or, no matter the absence, <br>there may always be an <br>apparent flash of light <br>from a near window <br>closing and opening, <br>little breaths beseeching <br>unseen hands, or hand, <br>striving for first or <br>second or third person <br>though there are only <br>one or two hands at <br>most and only one window <br>so far as I can see through <br>a curtain closed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mouse makes three.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This morning I open<br>the curtain which has<br>been closed since the<br>day before you flew away.<br>You had announced your<br>intention to leave the<br>first day we met, your<br>arrival with snow in <br>your eyes and nose. I <br>could only laugh, delight <br>really, at how you trembled <br>so cold, cold, and beautiful, <br>did I say already, how brown? <br>and allowed me to hold both <br>your hands beneath my shirt <br>to warm them. They were so <br>very cold, like late plums, <br>their outline even now perimeters <br>my skin, a tree grows there where/<br>which I proudly hold emboldened <br>to say, great, great, with <br>your sometimes mildness, <br>your sometimes wildness <br>now grown up, now flown. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But what I want to <br>report to you-not-here, <br>for the record, to be <br>read out into the snow <br>that has begun to fall <br>silently in the gutter, <br>is that I opened the <br>morning curtain and there <br>on the metal escape sat, <br>and still sits, a dove, <br>brown, beautiful, which<br>does not move at all, <br>when the curtains made<br>to move, and the day <br>rushes in without consent. <br>It, not the daylight <br>but the dove, just to <br>be very clear, cocks <br>only its head toward <br>movement and calmly </div><div style="margin:10px 0">(I have successfully <br>resisted writing 'moves <br>and calamity') </div><div style="margin:10px 0">sits shaped <br>like one pure tear. <br>Or pear. Both of which <br>share an 'ear'.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Suddenly, joy in me<br>flashes and I know the <br>dove for me has come. <br>And the mouse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And so in spite of <br>barricades in doorways<br>seeking to prevent your<br>entrance fully into <br>my study, I allow you<br>to let yourself out<br>that door just as you <br>came in where/which-<br>ever it is that allows<br>you entrance without<br>wind or grain, no offering<br>of any kind to announce <br>yourself upon the premises, <br>a flash mistaken for <br>light of which/whose <br>image does not diminish <br>in portent or muse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I sit now watching <br>the dove watch the<br>street below, the sky<br>above the tenements. <br>It does not shut its<br>eyes to flakes which <br>somehow do not in fall <br>though I recall now <br>how they manage to <br>find mine, even now <br>they beat upon the <br>glass trying to enter <br>eyes intent upon watching <br>the scene unfold upon <br>the page and within the <br>eyes of the Dove of Ages, <br>see what a thing it is <br>now already become <br>since childhood and<br>the backyard forest <br>sparkling, every surface <br>of everything covered<br>with ice clear, a sheer<br>skin which seems/seams to <br>move as I am moved/returned <br>in response to impertinent<br>snow to let more new world <br>come flashing in, and the <br>one-more-bird, a startle, <br>a cardinal red against all <br>the white, white, there were <br>many, coveys of them inordinate<br>in all the snow blind, too <br>much for a boy to bear, broken <br>eye-nerves, brittle sticks, <br>he kicks on his back crying <br>to make an angel his own to <br>be relieved of the too ordered <br>world, would be the unwanted, <br>unexpected child of things <br>shattered, his need for <br>constancy and same, beauty <br>a necessary addiction dependent <br>upon diction's canary eye and ear, <br>just to introduce another color <br>between mouse and meaning, <br>a chorus stunned into sound. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here I now sing this <br>lament for the one who <br>has brownly flown. <br>And for the one who/that <br>has brownly perched so <br>still, still, on the metal<br>cold, a rust color, allowing<br>each flake its compulsion to<br>touch upon eye and rust. <br>And for black mouse who has <br>given much to me, an image, <br>to see of my sorrow a flash <br>of what, insistent, gnaws at <br>what now sits in me-the-escape, <br>in me-the-study with old friends <br>so constant, books and papers, <br>notebooks of many years' mice <br>and birds, the too few lovers, <br>waiting to see if the present <br>mouse is still within or has, <br>too, taken a flown lover's fresh<br>cue brownly and from the house <br>removed, without. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I must add here, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">in praise of cold<br>beauty which cares<br>not whether one <br>suffers, cares not <br>that the mouse may <br>suffer, and the dove, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">that the mouse, <br>objectively, <br>its black fur, <br>is magnificence <br>very soft, it <br>appears without <br>shine as does the <br>ice shine in <br>severest beauty, <br>sear (now I know <br>the flash sure was <br>that of a tail, is <br>neither light nor <br>shadow, nor is an <br>occasion for blindness<br>as is the snow </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>or silence) .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It matters now <br>that I record this <br>in wet black ink<br>with an old quill<br>for the record<br>though the ink's <br>blackness, India ink, <br>ironically, and the <br>wet shine, are your<br>eyes which once again <br>are like the mouse, <br>though I do not wish<br>to compare them as <br>if you and the mouse<br>are the same like<br>someone's 'love is<br>a summer day' or 'a red, <br>red rose, ' snow up your <br>nose not withstanding, <br>for it, the day, the <br>eyes, yours, my house, <br>is now not to be mine <br>alone deposed before <br>the harsher winter, <br>nor is my heart to be <br>ever compared though <br>it wearies me to speak <br>of heart and love in the <br>same breath's poem which <br>does not, asthmatic, conform <br>to received form or line or <br>convention and tone as does, <br>say, a black mouse, just to<br>compare, conform to its own<br>convention, or shape swift <br>constancy and need, insistent, <br>unthought with not a care or <br>mind for, well, <br>(the better) , </div><div style="margin:10px 0">with no mind at<br>all (to speak of it <br>again) : </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The dove perhaps<br>on the window is</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">without...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The song is sung<br>or flinging itself<br>outwith from above <br>as snow, the musical <br>bar is the cold grate <br>the page upon which <br>the one true music <br>note rests, may, <br>singing silently <br>itself into itself <br>singing the world, <br>even this of the <br>mouse, your absent <br>eyes here, about, <br>my passivity against <br>the rhythms of chest<br>ice-rimed (cannot <br>write the heart again) <br>adding gutter music <br>drops, the bells drip <br>ringing there as you <br>have/were a bell or <br>bell-like announcing <br>the end at the beginning <br>descanting; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">it feels, though I was forewarned, <br>slipped swiftly away taking-with <br>a number of days and all my nights, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the wet black ink<br>winks upon the page</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and the song is<br>instead of you today<br>one black mouse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535606" data-title="Instead Of You Today One Black Mouse de Warren Falcon" data-description="Instead of you today
one black mouse.

It arrives the first
day of your departure.
It catches the corner 
of my eye, my blood eye, 
as you call it, and I 
think at first that this 
is only sunlight reflecting
from a window being closed 
across the..."></div>
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