Leemann 4

Of Being in Space

Dusk is about to spread its wings.

Turning above Chicago’s lake shore
our plane reaches the clouds, pulls through them.
Their gauze briefly clings to the full moon, that
suddenly flies, a clean shield. – The lamp shaded
with the relative, the friendly, has become a disk

thrown in the absolute.

The trees shake horribly and shudder.

The steamy floor of slowdown whirls fluffing below
eases out into a plateau, with sketches as though
on a skin – or scribbles, or dust on a wasteland.
Out of a glaucous vacancy some unseen currents
muster new rippling expanses, and the inevitable

vast droves of sheep.

The clouds hang low, like heavy dreams.

To our right, far down, another craft swims
through the soft wool of the dark. It pushes,
falls behind, keeps blinking: save our / save
our / save our – „soul“ (favoring this term) –
while it is being swallowed somewhere. And

the moon sees all.

What is that frightening dark other?

At our feet some otherworldly inclines lull,
and horizontals, in a snowscape beyond seasons.
There are shifts and scufflings, and rare screens
that open now and then. Some waterways, or a lake,
the sea? intermittently display a sheen down there.

Platinum wings folding.

Be there a chosen fawn you cherish,

I glean threads of light, X-rays of a gone place,
quotes of moonshine. Brass trimmings tag a sunken
city. Its tousled charms fade, fall in line minutely,
definitely vanish under a cloud tide, that
vanishes itself – one crest remaining

over unroofed space.

then do not let it graze alone.

We have curved into a darkness that forbids
clouds. Riddled spills of light occur.
Letterings of desolation between voids.
Till finally the mat sea mirror, rolling
into view, establishes a twofold simplicity:

sky / water.

A hunt is on. The woodlands echo

The lunar wake, an even avenue, slants up first,
downs: flips like a page, to fall away. (That is,
our plane veers left.) The moon, already out of
sight, still yields a great translucence. Borne
under her nostalgic wing, we enter, are hugged

by an arcane shadow.

with erring voices. Horns are blown.

Lifting my eyes, I chance upon the one,
high-walking star: Jupiter’s radiance.
As East and West vie for a shimmer
with faint hyperbolas claiming, the source
is here / is here, he calmly pins the velvet

middle of the night.

Your truest comrade here below

Surprisingly, a tiny white cloud brushes past
our plane... Far ahead I spy an infant blue,
an inkling of regain. Then, a wild fog storming
up abolishes all orientation. There appears
a transverse trace on the flat twilight mask,

a pale highway.

may not be trusted at this hour.

Through panes and indecisions of half-whites
we come upon a slow dawn-fancy, float over
a dream-lazy school of whales. Endlessly spread
hyperborean carpets speak against the day,
while far ahead a salmon ribbon traces

its clear dome.

Kind words and friendly smiles become

There is a happiness of being in space, a definite
somebody moving. The ribbon I saw softly reddens
now, under a shy azuring, between vague rest of
smoke: eyebrows. (The west, a purpling ultra-
marine night-to-be, extends a farewell with slow

silver-gray arks: lashes.)

a foe’s peace, a deceitful power.

The cirrus streaming up precede last numbers of the
white show: bear paws, piles of wrinkled sheets,
or sod, holes, puffs in it. Ahead, a curious hint
of green pervades the day. Up close, immense crowns
promenade their radiance, their shadows cast

a welcoming.

Whatever flags tonight, goes under

A large arena, deep transparent lake
invites the eye to dive, reach bottom
where soft boulders lean. And we speed
across a series of white streamers flown
as for a homecoming. Instantly we are

flooded with the whitest

will spring tomorrow morn, revive.

white flush. On comes the blue sky. We move
facing the sun now. For Keflavik, a simple
weather forecast: rain. Here, over these
exalted fields, mysterious water similes,
stories of strata, innumerable bodies tower,

brighter than icebergs

Some things remain engulfed in shadow. -

FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT. – Brushing by light
cotton fluffs, epitomes of softness, billowings, we
descend rapidly. We steer through brusquely
dimmed rooms, delightfully lit chambers, somber
rushes of fog, until a slate of water coldly

spells: ground level.

Beware, and keep yourself alive.

A sharp right turn. The Earth zooms up. With
lichen. Shrubbery? Lichen. Keflavik: the little
keep of Europe. Having by-passed time and sleep,
I feel exhilarated, tired. Exiled, too. Around your lasting
silence I perceive a stir of people, after our plane’s

perfect landing.