Foregone Gedicht von Brian Johnson
You bar me. You remember the time I cried in your presence. The times I cried in your absence belong to the bench and a leaf-sheeted pond.
Where will I find it, old light, old shaking flesh, memento-clasp? If I am barred from you, I am barred from every book, and every couch, and every chamber-to-chamber ramble, the love of myself not being myself.
I forgot to eat. I forgot when to need you, and when to leave you. It was that kind of love, dissident, undutiful, like hiding in the whiteness of a half-life that darkens the moment you recognize it, the instant you think it’s yours, a stone come to life, a cloud made to speak.
No space is made to be entered; to be beheld, looked-for, circled, retraced, is the nature of it, and this long waiting at the shore, at doors, over and over. I come out of the wind at night. I stop, turn around, and sit down. I expect something in the stillness. A reunion with green. A bit of red. You standing in the water, fish-pale and wet-haired. I can make you out, so clearly.
The territory of a rabbit, the territory of an eye. Every dawn, a brush in the hoarfrost. This old road like all roads, populated for long stretches and then vacated, moon-evacuated, scoured clean of its meetings, of you, of me, of every creeping and flitting and broken thing, a long time ago.
Glimpses of white: snow-white, paper-white, cloud-white. But how to breathe it, how to parade around it, like we’d finally been given the place, like we’d gotten beyond beautiful, and beyond isn’t it?
We are ghosts now, in a black forest. You lead me through the trees. It snows. It keeps snowing, and we stay.