Raptus (Penguin, 2010) est le journal intime d'une renaissance ; introspection d'une extrême finesse, les mots justes pour dire sans ostentation aucune l'irréparable de la rupture, un recueil incroyablement lumineux dans ses derniers poèmes. La référence à Rilke ne paraîtra écrasante qu'à ceux qui ne l'ont pas lu.
the world has hardened we do not harden
Sleepwalker suppose there are other loves
Sleepwalker suppose there are other loves
velvet-wet night on the tarmac
I will always adore you So long
I will always adore you So long
De peur de réaliser que
le monde est devenu plus dur nous ne nous endurcissons pas
Somnambule suppose qu'il est d'autres amours
moiteur de velours nuit sur le tarmac
je t'adorerai toujours Adieu
Into the kitchen a light
rays down quiet. A private
sense of absence in my everyday
patterns—of disservice, breath,
or words pulled into my ribs
prying apart my errors from
the hopes that made them
and outside the window coated
in soot from winds that come
all winter, some process has
ceased although birds
drop and lift off the roof,
aerial sweeps, or just bursts of
feather, wings, claws, and the leap
of heart I would have,
should I be so brightly altered
with the chances of life,
a reparation I feel gathering
in my lungs, zero in the pitch,
scarlet wing, most unnatural
sound held in the dim
threshold of my throat
or am I less than I was
and fear I can't distinguish
the delicate blue current inside
the light from the pain in my voice
or the early morning fog laid over
the grass from the voice
that underlies everything
rays down quiet. A private
sense of absence in my everyday
patterns—of disservice, breath,
or words pulled into my ribs
prying apart my errors from
the hopes that made them
and outside the window coated
in soot from winds that come
all winter, some process has
ceased although birds
drop and lift off the roof,
aerial sweeps, or just bursts of
feather, wings, claws, and the leap
of heart I would have,
should I be so brightly altered
with the chances of life,
a reparation I feel gathering
in my lungs, zero in the pitch,
scarlet wing, most unnatural
sound held in the dim
threshold of my throat
or am I less than I was
and fear I can't distinguish
the delicate blue current inside
the light from the pain in my voice
or the early morning fog laid over
the grass from the voice
that underlies everything
