Winter Night (Eliot Cardinaux)

  Winter Night

A beginning heaves,

a slow crashing wave,

a tide,

rising in the mouth of the bay,

look up,

it’s moonlight,

waving,

the wing of a gull, stray

and laughing

in the belly of the sky.

Man hears his own weight

falling like endless heavy snow.

When the lamps go out

I’m forced to rest,

giving away that ticket to darkness,

the night grows purple,

huddling close,

birds call through the snow-stricken branches.

1/28  ’11

Articulate Sunlight (no. 127) - Eliot Cardinaux

  Articulate Sunlight (no. 127)

Fields you could see

a wolf  running across.

In the articulate sunlight,

a meandering crowd,

ceaselessly searching for the one

whose note will never sound.

Old men playing chess,

send the pieces flying,

a raucous laughter filling up the emptiness of dawn.

I always look through the mirror.

Something happens for me to hold on to

in the distance, past my gaze;

I came home, carrying the news of that road:

Ahead of us, nowhere.

Somewhere behind, I see us crouching.

                        ’11

The Dead (no. 125) Eliot C.

The Dead (no. 125)

            Radiators siphoning light,

            while the sun makes a buffer

            for my storm-struck dreams,

            tell the story of forgetfulness,

            a history of sound

                        and objects,

            confirmed by the nihilist

                        who struggles just to walk,

                        fill the cup with salt,

            where night outside

          eats its way through space,

            and the souls of the dead

                        are an aching absence

            on the fringe of denial

                                    where inner sounds

                                    profoundly change,

                                      a moth fluttering its wings

                                                             winds into the sky…

'11