04 Feb The Edges of Light (Selected poems: 1983-1990)


L’intervalle prolongé
Hors champ
Les retouches de l’intime
Les corridors du temps
Un visage appuyé contre le monde






Andrea Moorhead


Guernica editions



fissure takes the place
of expression

I explore
                    this emptiness

on the waters
this blue of memories

light traces the assault
wind the grasses
cross the inner walls


the ground

this earth: motionless presence
and I resist
the whiteness



At that time I had only eyes
absent from myself my body
locked from the inside
outside my paths narrowed
until they no longer were
I traced the erratic
movement of flesh
bound to dark as to silence
I walked at the edge of myself
conjugating exile and flight
from what remained
in the muscles
a fragment of a gesture
knowing well the grasp
of a shadow
not belonging to me

all that is my life you know
this cold that intervenes
to endlessly inscribe the end



In the decor of the room, you resemble a shadow that becomes that it touches. I see your
body and the space it displaces. To elude your glance, I would have to slide into this sea
the horizon draws. But incessantly I return to your face, your shoulders, your arms.


Outside the road is black. I wait for something to appear, for you to come along the
berme of this road. It is twenty-two hours and the blackness hasn’t diminished at all. I see
my face reflected in the window; everything is half empty.


What was I trying to tell you in the texture of the writing? And you, what are you looking
for in the contrasting image of reality? You will place alongside my body a body other
than yours. You will tell me to withdraw, then approach again. I will walk on the paths
you put down as a way of filling up the distance between life and myself.


Like a bottomless form, I walk without really advancing towards a place that would
gather both your face and mine. I speak to you, silencing the distance that holds me. I
think about what’s beginning again, under other forms.



The question without terror does not matter.


The landscape that has been shaken is the one that renews us. I love the wave that
breathes to the sand the force of abandonment and exhausts itself alone.


Does one know dust, foam, seaweed and rock? I am waiting for what will lead me all the
way to my night.


Perhaps am I a tremor of the earth, trying to disappear. Perhaps am I only that: a tremor
of being in the middle of an eclipse.


One marvels at so many lives
to seize hold of things
towards what furrow am I thrown
in what black room
filled with fissures


I look at the immediate horizon
that surveys the flesh
cuts scattered in me
like reasons for having passed
buried into a story
of love and disappearance


A particle from somewhere else and some other time; a provisional desire of the universe;
a possible path of time. Perhaps I am only that.