The thunderclaps, the jagged strokes of rage
were all interior. The movement above them now
will seem like immobility. The clouds upend
and peak. They are mountains as still as the light.
The afternoon has ebbed to the second line of trees:
because we watch within the shadows, we can see.
Noon shoots from the hip, savage and blind.
The slanting sun is also merciless, but truer
to the shape of things as they are.
It’s not too late for the lake, you say.
We slip from the dock. Our bodies drift
with the clouds on blackened glass,
reflections among reflections.
Summer circles down into the past, blank
as the sudden chill, the outcrops of rock.
The shore retreats. Our ripples sheer away,
like missing words the dead withhold.
But that is how we are loved.
Loved as a mirror, a night-wall.
Loved as an indifference.
Author Bio:
Hoyt Rogers is a writer and translator. He translates from the French, German, Italian, and Spanish. He has published many books; he has contributed poetry, fiction, essays, and translations to a wide variety of periodicals. His edition of Yves Bonnefoy's Rome, 1630 received the 2021 Translation Prize from the French-American Foundation. His forthcoming works include a poetry collection, Thresholds (MadHat Press), the novel Sailing to Noon (book one of The Caribbean Trilogy), and a translation of Bonnefoy’s The Wandering Life (Seagull Books). For more information, please visit his website, hoytrogers.com.
were all interior. The movement above them now
will seem like immobility. The clouds upend
and peak. They are mountains as still as the light.
The afternoon has ebbed to the second line of trees:
because we watch within the shadows, we can see.
Noon shoots from the hip, savage and blind.
The slanting sun is also merciless, but truer
to the shape of things as they are.
It’s not too late for the lake, you say.
We slip from the dock. Our bodies drift
with the clouds on blackened glass,
reflections among reflections.
Summer circles down into the past, blank
as the sudden chill, the outcrops of rock.
The shore retreats. Our ripples sheer away,
like missing words the dead withhold.
But that is how we are loved.
Loved as a mirror, a night-wall.
Loved as an indifference.
Author Bio:
Hoyt Rogers is a writer and translator. He translates from the French, German, Italian, and Spanish. He has published many books; he has contributed poetry, fiction, essays, and translations to a wide variety of periodicals. His edition of Yves Bonnefoy's Rome, 1630 received the 2021 Translation Prize from the French-American Foundation. His forthcoming works include a poetry collection, Thresholds (MadHat Press), the novel Sailing to Noon (book one of The Caribbean Trilogy), and a translation of Bonnefoy’s The Wandering Life (Seagull Books). For more information, please visit his website, hoytrogers.com.
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