My mother looks at her watch,
As if to look back over the curve
Of her life, her slackening rhythms:
Nobody can know her, how she lost herself
Evening after evening in that after,
Her hourly feelings, the repetition,
Delay and failure of her labour
Of mourning. The steps space themselves
Out, the steps pass, in the mists
And hesitations of the summer,
And within a space which is doubled,
One of us has passed through the other,
Though one must count oneself three,
To figure out which of us
Has let herself be traversed.

Nothing advances, we don't move,
We don't address one another,
I haven't opened my mouth
Except for one remark,
And what remark was that?
A word which appeases the menace
Of time in us, reading as if
I were stripping the words
Of their ever-mortal high meaning.

She is in dark light, or an openness
That leads to a darkness,
Embedded in the wall
Her mono-landscape
Stays facing the sea
And the harbour activity,
Her sea-conscience being ground up
With the smooth time of the deep,
Her mourning silhouetted against
The splendour of the sea
Which is now to your left,
As violent as it is distant
From all aggressive powers
Or any embassies.

And she actively dreams
In the very long ending of this moment,
She is back in her lapping marshes,
Still walking with the infinite
Step of a prisoner, that former dimension
In which her gaze spreads itself
As a stroke without regarding you,
Making you lower your own gaze.

Who will be there,
At that moment, beside her,
When time becomes sacred,
And her voice becomes an opera,
And the solitude is removed
From her body, as if my hand
Had been held in some invisible place?