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after Paul Celan
The hare’s
dust pelt
against the juniper’s sky
now
in the eye uncovered
a question clear
in the wing
of the day and the predator
that writes
the animal’s luck, too.
Where is tomorrow?
Will tomorrow be beautiful?
Someone will answer.
Someone will remember
that dustcolored
tragedy, incidental, belonging
to no one, arriving before
as a flock of cranes
protracted in a long descent
winging blind
to field—the days
are beautiful.
O little root of a dream you hold me here undermined by blood, no longer visible to anyone, property of death. Curve a face that there may be speech, of earth, of ardor, of things with eyes, even here, where you read me blind, even here, where you refute me, to the letter.