FRENCH WINDOWS

For Gabriel Josipovici

Two doors.
Glass first. Seeing through.
Then stone. Silence.
Two people on the threshold.
Two fingers on the buzzer.
One to the left. One to the right.
Going through.
Smiles. After you, Madam!
Nodding. Silence.
A touch on the door-handle. Untouched.
A ring. Unrung. Silence.

A page. Ripped out. Passing through.
Everything passes.

The wind in the hair. You’re obsessed with my hair. Silent.
Under the hair is the head. Silent.
Pure thought.
You would give anything to have me. Silent.

I chair the panel on cosmic relations.
He says: Cormac McCarthy says, “so be it.”
I think Vonnegut says, “so it goes.”
He says: Cormac McCarthy says, “there is hope.”
I say: in the face of “so be it”?
He says: Joseph McElroy says, “there is energy.”

Everything passes.
He says, “cosmic obsession doesn’t.”
I say, “is that of love, of writing, or doors?”
Silence.
He says, “Shakespeare knew his audience. Rabelais didn’t.”
He says, “Shakespeare was obsessed with love. Rabelais with writing.”
I, with doors.
I would think anything to touch you. Silent.

Writing is silent. You step behind the curtain of the French window. My shadow is grey. Silent. On my sleek stockings with a black seam that ends in a doodle it is written: “Stop,” on one leg. “Go,” on the other.

I pass, but not from your mind.