I have forgotten the name of things.
In the midst of circuits, babbling
a few words without meaning
I seek the exact drawer in my brain
where one day I put away the voice
with which I used to call the water
of grapes wine;
as for bread,
I don’t recall.
The image appears but has no name
and now everything’s a silent movie
with objects drifting into gestures:
—pantomime in color, the tape
of Moebius where I run.
* * *
Let’s just say the transparency
of the tree
of the landscape
not ruminants or other
ways to say the same:
The cow has lineage and her prestige
does not depend upon the name: but rather
on its instantaneous mark on the meadow
like an advertisement that regains