Tuesday, June 2, 2020
A Ripple in the Vast Cosmos
Because I must go on describing you - because you will not consent to let me see you - I am a wordy beggar in the Kingdom of the Lord (where silence is a law). Years ago, in Dublin, I studied a woman waiting for a bus, committing her to memory, and it was as if I were describing my own self, as if the image completed the description and not the other way around, though I did not understand this at the time. Snow falls from the gray sky in April - its actual origin obscured - and then falls from the side yard lilac and maples to the earth - and then over the course of a brightening afternoon melts. How else are we sustained, we whose imaginations are kin to God? These sentences are all the self there is, each a ripple in the vast cosmos of us, a little lick, a shudder coming. A text comes together under my fingers but the fundamental art remains incomplete. Can you not see this? Over the miles goes the low hum of desire, as decades later Hansel goes back into the forest, knowing full well that you can't murder witches but only please them and then hope that their pleasure is exculpatory. It is not our bodies that long to meet, but rather our stories. There is no structure! How long must I go on singing, how long will you leave me blind. The bus arrives: again I am alone.