.
The world had been created to comprehend itself
as matter: table, the torn
veils of spiders ... Even consciousness—
missing my love—
was matter, the metal box of a furnace.
As the obligated flame, so burned my life ...
What is the meaning of this suffering I asked
and the voice—not Christ but between us—
said you are the meaning.
No no, I replied, That
is the shape, what is the meaning.
You are the meaning, it said—
.
Isn’t it always like this?
Something uncontrollable becomes the hero,
Taking off its dress, the ice plants
Sunburn from the center out
So we can see that their deaths
Of splendid rust and yellow are not ours,
We are allowed again the glare
Of the sand, the druid hills,
The grasses brushing the legs, though
Just to have felt it once would have been enough.
.
2 comments:
"veils of spiders" is so very beautiful a description.
yes, i really like how "something uncontrollable becomes the hero".
i think that both are part of something similar:
the fragile and the fleeting, the ephemeral lying up against the indelible: what it is to have been something, to have lived something, to be living, even as it is brushed away, as it brakes apart, gets blown down,
it was there, once upon a time, and thus you can't erase it.
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