Come, nerves clod in uni-
form, voice-spearing,
hands shake-gloved. Someone
had been here, spoke of your latitudes,
prefixed my name, confused my fingers. So
come – retrace the curves,
thin them out, show me your solar plexus,
steal what I may have lost. – I'll
sit here,
pare off my phantoms into an ashtray,
look at the hunchbacks,
the ego-carriers, crossing the ford, laughing,
conversing about injustices,
eating each other's tongues out. – I
will sit here. (Rains will come,
will count them down). And say,
won't that be cozy: I sit, read Eliot, –
you bring me coffee.
Hour freed from the Just
compacted for convenience purpose,
filed away under α and β –
followed by occasional funerals which I didn't attend, by
occasional weddings which I almost attended
somewhere on the other side of the century: a prolix, mis-
-padded time,
emptied the ashtray and turned the page.
murdered in solitude, drank in solitude, committed
other innocent tokens of justice.
Fought prideless, cashed signatures on the napkins;
through boredom hosted the bored
extremities in the
mouth. Moved onwards,
to midnight:
and Charon's ferry runs empty.
A fly: quintuped, quadruped, triped, legless...
– a hand transpires from smoke,
wipes the lips and closes the circuit.
The perennial, re-lived into
un-event: compiled,
complied with, – erects
a serfDome of surface-spection:
a sigh rattling among the tall walls
from opening to opening sealed for winter,
(then lies about the green upholstery –
a living, unbreathing dust).
upon one another; omitted vowels of the
faces – compiled, complied with.
of Apocalypses,
reclining against the green upholstery,
watering plants or looking
folds up her fingers' envelopes,
and at night leaves the door unlocked.
The France Issue
Summer 2010
Poems
Alexandra Sashe
Alexandra
Sashe is a Paris-based writer. She
was born in Moscow, graduated in Fine Arts, linguistics and literature. Her poetry is published in literary
reviews and
magazines in the