The Labyrinth
to René Char
I wake in the morning to the war
which is not your war.
My enemies assemble on the dais
so that I may count them.
Then we share a meal together.
On the upper pond
a precept shattered the quiet
with its abstract reign,
searching for the moon’s pale key.
Soon a warbler joined itself
to the nation that was
my soul. We made an awkward
hybrid, stared down
in the marketplace, called out
by the boys at the racetrack gate.
I wandered far into the blood
which is not your blood.
I drew with it on the stone walls.
From the filiation of the body
I understood my minor
office. I knew the labor of bells.
Now I walk among those
who would have dressed
themselves in my substance,
who lap me on the forest paths
where the war sleeps.
We greet one another
with gifts of salt, an old tradition.
We sign our separate names.
