Credo

You say wind is only wind

& carries nothing vigourous

in its teeth.

                    I do not believe it.

I have seen leaves desist

                                           from moving

although the branches

                                        move, & I

believe a cyclone has secrets

the weather is ignorant of.

                                               I believe

in the violence of not knowing.

I’ve seen a river lose its course

& join itself again,

                                 watched it court

a stream & coax the stream

into its current,

 & I have seen

rivers, not unlike

                               you, that failed to find

their way back.

                           I believe the rapport

between water & sand, the advent

from mirror to face.

                                     I believe in rain

to cover what mourns,

                                         in hail that revives

& sleet that erodes, believe

whatever falls

                         is a figure of rain

& now I believe in torrents that take

everything down with them.

The sky calls it quits,

                                     or so I believe,

when air, or earth, or air,

has had enough.

I believe in disquiet,

the pressure it plies, believe a cloud

to govern the limits of night.

                                                    I say I,

but little is left to say it, much less

mean it ―

                    & yet I do.

                                        Let there be

no mistake:

                     I do not believe

things are reborn in fire.

They’re consumed by fire

 & the fire has a life of its own.

Credo

Tu dis que le vent n’est que le vent

& ne porte nulle vigueur

entre les dents.

                           Je ne crois pas cela.

J’ai vu des feuilles renoncer

                                                 à se mouvoir

alors que les branches elles

                                                 se meuvent, & je

crois qu’un cyclone détient des secrets

qu’ignore le temps qu’il fait.

                                                   Je crois

à la violence de ne pas savoir.

J’ai vu une rivière égarer son cours

& se rejoindre à nouveau,

                                              je l’ai vue courtiser

un ruisseau & si bien enjôler ce ruisseau

qu’en son courant il s’est versé,

   & j’ai vu

des rivières, en rien dissemblables

                                                             de toi, qui n’ont pas su trouver

le chemin du retour.

                                     Je crois la relation

entre l’eau & le sable, l’avènement

du miroir au visage.

                                     Je crois la pluie

capable de couvrir le deuil,

                                                 la grêle qui ravive

& l’érosion des neiges qui fondent, crois

que tout ce qui tombe

                                        figure la pluie

& maintenant je crois aux torrents qui tout

emportent dans leur descente.

Le ciel s’en tient quitte,

                                          ou du moins je le crois,

lorsque l’air, ou la terre, ou l’air,

en a eu assez.

   Je crois à l’intranquillité,

la pression qu’elle exerce, crois un nuage

capable de régir les limites de la nuit.

                                                                   Je dis je,

mais il reste peu de le dire, encore moins

de le penser ―

                            & cependant je le fais.

                                                                     Que l’on ne s’y

trompe pas :

                       Je ne crois pas que

les choses renaissent du feu.

Elles se consument par le feu

 & le feu mène sa vie à lui.