[EVEN HANDFULS OF MATCHES]



Even handfuls of matches
no longer shed light, can hardly
even stand, raising
round you
a makeshift shelter,
a hut made of tender wood and
burnt to a crisp to tell us,
remind us,
not to approach

for today distance is the only
sure bond, the only trail
opening up ahead
of my footsteps




Far from the explosive nights
and below the stones,
far, very far from where they are stacked,
below the naked feet and below the noises,
off to the side, far from any light,
in a place no star
can reach or disturb,
you are sleeping, covered with feathers,
thin skins of shadow, layers
and layers of shadow, a black-petal
eiderdown




let him go




José-Flore Tappy, Tombeau [éditions Empreintes, Lausanne, 2013] in Sheds/Hangars: Collected Poems, 1983-2013, The Bitter Oleander Press, Fayetteville, New York, 2014, pp. 208-209. Translated from the French by John Taylor.