Merely stray, image of
A wandering deity, searching for
Wells or for work. They scale
Rungs of air, ascending
And descending - we are a little
Lower. The grass covers us.
But statues, here, they stand, simple as
Horizon. Statements,
Yes - but what they stand for
Is long fallen.
Angels of memory: they point
To the death of time, not
Themselves timeless, and without
Recall. Their
Strength is to stand
Still, afterglow
Of an old religion.
One can imagine them
Sentient - that is to say, we may
Attribute to stone-hardness, one after the
Other, our own five senses, until it spring
To life and
Breathe and sneeze and step
Down among us.
But in fact, they are
The opposite of perception: we
Bury our gaze in them. For all my
Sympathy, I
Suppose they see
Nothing at all, eyeless to indicate
Our calamity, breathless and graceful
Above the ruins they inspire.
I could close my eyes now and
Evade, maybe, the blind
Fear that their wings hold.
The visible body expresses our
Body as a whole, it's
Internal asymmetries, and also the broken
Symmetry we wander through.
With practice I might
Regard people and things - the field
Around me - as blots: objects
For fantasy, shadowy but
Legible. All these
Words have other meanings. A little
Written may be far too
Much to read.
A while and a while and a while, after a
While make something like forever.
From ontological bric-a-brac, and
Without knowing quite what they
Mean, I select my
Four ambassadors: my
Double, my shadow, my shining
Covering, my name.
The graven names are not their
Names, but ours.
Expectation, endlessly
Engraved, is a question
To beg. Blemishes on exposed
Surfaces - perpetual
Corrosion - enliven features
Fastened to the stone.
Expecting nothing without
Struggle, I come to expect nothing
But struggle.
The primal Adam, our
Archetype - light at his back, heavy
Substance below him - glanced
Down into uncertain depths, fell in
Love with and fell
Into his own shadow.
Legend or history: footprints
Of passing events. Lord
How our information
Increaseth.
I see only
A surface - complex enough, it's
Interruptions of
Deep blue - suggesting that the earth
Is hollow, stretched around
What must be all the rest.
My "world" is parsimoniuos - a few
Elements which
Combine, like tricks of light, to
Sketch the barest outline. But my
Void is lavish, breaking
It's frame, tempting me always to
Turn again, again, for each
Glimpse suggests more and more in some
Other, farther emptiness.
To reach empty space, think
Away each object - without destroying
It's position. Ghostly then, with
Contents gone, the
Vacuum will not, as you
Might expect, collapse, but
Hang there,
Vacant, waiting an inrush of
Reappointments seven times
Worse than anything you know, seven other dimensions
Curled into our three.
But time empties, on
Occasion, more quickly than
That. Breathe in our out. No
Motion moves.
Trees go down, random and
Planted, the
Way we think.
The sacrificial animal is
Consumed by fire, ascends in greasy
Smoke, an offering
To the sky. Earthly
Refuse assaults
Heaven, as we are contaminated by
Notions of eternity. It is as if
A love letter - or everything I
Have written - were to be
Torn up and the pieces
Scattered, in
Order to reach the beloved.
No entrance after
Sundown. Under how vast a
Night, what we call day.
What stands still is merely
Extended - what
Moves is in space.
Immobile figures, here in a
Race with death gloom about their
Heads like a dark nimbus.
Still, they do - while standing -
Go: they've a motion
Like the flow of water, like
Ice, only slower. Our
Time is a river, theirs
The glassy sea.
They drift, as
We do, in this garden so swank, so grandly
Indiscriminate. Frail
Wings, fingers too fragile. Their faces
Freckle, weathering.
Pure spirit, saith the Angelic
Doctor. But not these
Angels: pure visibility, hovering,
Lifting horror into the day,
To cancel and preserve it.
The worst death, worse
Than death, would be to die, leaving
Nothing unfinished.
Somewhere in my life, there
Must have been - buried now under
Long accumulation - some extreme
Joy which, never spoken, cannot
Be brought to mind. How else, in this
Unconscious city, could I have
Such a sense of dwelling?
I would
Raise... What's the opposite
Of Ebenezer?
Night, with it's crypt, it's
Cradlesong. Rage
For day's end: impatience,
Like a boat in the evening. Toward
The horizon, as
Down a sounding line. Barcarolle,
Funeral march.
Nocturne at high noon.
Angels go - we Merely stray, image of A wandering deity, searching for Wells or for work. They scale Rungs of air, ascending And descending - we are a little Lower. The grass covers us. But statues, here, they stand, simple as Horizon. Statements, Yes - but what they stand for Is long fallen. Angels of memory: they point To the death of time, not Themselves timeless, and without Recall. Their Strength is to stand Still, afterglow Of an old religion. One can imagine them Sentient - that is to say, we may Attribute to stone-hardness, one after the Other, our own five senses, until it spring To life and Breathe and sneeze and step Down among us. But in fact, they are The opposite of perception: we Bury our gaze in them. For all my Sympathy, I Suppose they see Nothing at all, eyeless to indicate Our calamity, breathless and graceful Above the ruins they inspire. I could close my eyes now and Evade, maybe, the blind Fear that their wings hold. The visible body expresses our Body as a whole, it's Internal asymmetries, and also the broken Symmetry we wander through. With practice I might Regard people and things - the field Around me - as blots: objects For fantasy, shadowy but Legible. All these Words have other meanings. A little Written may be far too Much to read. A while and a while and a while, after a While make something like forever. From ontological bric-a-brac, and Without knowing quite what they Mean, I select my Four ambassadors: my Double, my shadow, my shining Covering, my name. The graven names are not their Names, but ours. Expectation, endlessly Engraved, is a question To beg. Blemishes on exposed Surfaces - perpetual Corrosion - enliven features Fastened to the stone. Expecting nothing without Struggle, I come to expect nothing But struggle. The primal Adam, our Archetype - light at his back, heavy Substance below him - glanced Down into uncertain depths, fell in Love with and fell Into his own shadow. Legend or history: footprints Of passing events. Lord How our information Increaseth. I see only A surface - complex enough, it's Interruptions of Deep blue - suggesting that the earth Is hollow, stretched around What must be all the rest. My "world" is parsimoniuos - a few Elements which Combine, like tricks of light, to Sketch the barest outline. But my Void is lavish, breaking It's frame, tempting me always to Turn again, again, for each Glimpse suggests more and more in some Other, farther emptiness. To reach empty space, think Away each object - without destroying It's position. Ghostly then, with Contents gone, the Vacuum will not, as you Might expect, collapse, but Hang there, Vacant, waiting an inrush of Reappointments seven times Worse than anything you know, seven other dimensions Curled into our three. But time empties, on Occasion, more quickly than That. Breathe in our out. No Motion moves. Trees go down, random and Planted, the Way we think. The sacrificial animal is Consumed by fire, ascends in greasy Smoke, an offering To the sky. Earthly Refuse assaults Heaven, as we are contaminated by Notions of eternity. It is as if A love letter - or everything I Have written - were to be Torn up and the pieces Scattered, in Order to reach the beloved. No entrance after Sundown. Under how vast a Night, what we call day. What stands still is merely Extended - what Moves is in space. Immobile figures, here in a Race with death gloom about their Heads like a dark nimbus. Still, they do - while standing - Go: they've a motion Like the flow of water, like Ice, only slower. Our Time is a river, theirs The glassy sea. They drift, as We do, in this garden so swank, so grandly Indiscriminate. Frail Wings, fingers too fragile. Their faces Freckle, weathering. Pure spirit, saith the Angelic Doctor. But not these Angels: pure visibility, hovering, Lifting horror into the day, To cancel and preserve it. The worst death, worse Than death, would be to die, leaving Nothing unfinished. Somewhere in my life, there Must have been - buried now under Long accumulation - some extreme Joy which, never spoken, cannot Be brought to mind. How else, in this Unconscious city, could I have Such a sense of dwelling? I would Raise... What's the opposite Of Ebenezer? Night, with it's crypt, it's Cradlesong. Rage For day's end: impatience, Like a boat in the evening. Toward The horizon, as Down a sounding line. Barcarolle, Funeral march. Nocturne at high noon. Explain Request ×
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