she says "as the poems go"
as if poems had a life of their own,
as if they were not sitting on her chair,
dozing on her lap,
resting their profiles on the pleats
of her checkered skirt, this autumn.
as if the air could hold a verse.
as if a verse was not a medal,
a silver circle seizing
the view of a street across a window
at a given hour of a checkered autumn,
moulding the angles of her profile,
mourning the shape of every pleat
on a hovering lap where I'd rest,
right now, my shoulders.
an empty chair
like a paper
where I'd pin every trace of her
like a poem.
as she goes.
Installation: Annette Messager.
