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The landscape is behind the door.

The landscape is behind the door The person is there . . . New York is full Of similar places where a world A large cloud is being built Only the heads stay put You pay before arriving A long time before opening your mouth There are things near us Which all have their green sides You wear your eyes and lose them A caterpillar makes the difference The girl with her face full of blood Stops and asks the time It's a year that doesn't know its number A smile at the bottom of a pocket So! The liar-bird, sister of confiding Disowns the bed swollen with streams on Sundays The others' lives painted on a lampshade I draw you like a salary Superfluous statue Earth hatched from hot tears Soaring blinds me pinned to the planets I don't stop digging to the antipodes I unwind the horoscope bandages It's my body it's my surprise cocoon My well in the prolific sand Riddled with waiting I fall On you a girl carrying dish cloths Swooning Cyclops Manure unstitches your rump Soldiers freeze under the bullets Blue and yellow stripes enchant their awaking An evening is only another day A curt gesture preserved under the flagstone Narrow chance forget your role here One plays alone It's enough to go in To sit down near a book To bend the shadow on one's knees To know who passes the mirror Who walks on the bed The children buckle their foreheads The dust breaks the linen The photo smothers night So nothing appears In the bedroom Religious hand I no longer touch you A disk feeds the sky The fires of prehistory continue stubbornly The stray felucca the demolished skeleton Take advantage of their incognito In the hollow of geysers wedding of dolphins Pity is strangled There is a dead woman in the mailbox Perfumed powder this silence I too am a lost belly A sun cut loose fleeced of its voices The game preserve ransacked the petals fall Sadness finally bathed like a rain The walking Geometer intelligences Give birth to rings The aplomb delivers I recognize the equinox Here everywhere equal beauty Accessory as within without The door labeled with abuses The meadow chaplet of smoke Game birds on the scale of cigarettes Barely all this despair For the sake of peace and quietness The bee enters The obelisks searches The center swells The bone splinter goes

Pierre Martory is the author of a novel, Phebus. His collection of poems, Every Question But One, is forthcoming from Sheep Meadow Press in a bilingual edition with translations by John Ashbery. His poetry has appeared in several publications including Poetry, The New Yorker, and o/blek.

John Ashbery is the Charles P. Stevenson, Jr. Professor of Languages and Literature at Bard College. In 1992 he received the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize and the Antonio Feltrinelli International Prize for Poetry.
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Author:Martory, Pierre; Ashbery, John
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 1993
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