March 7, 2011
In the library
even when I write bright
the intensity of the light
is subjective in fact
comparatively dim
when I stare down the stacks
and see the glow
that still escapes
from row upon row
of closed volumes
some ignited centuries ago
from this week in March, 1976 (I was 31)
That classic sidestep by the matador
that en passant of the bull ring
what’s that called?
It’s the basic deception
the stare over the cape
then the move upon the toes
looking right and going left
What is this, longing for Hemingway
or for Death in the Afternoon?
No it’s for that clean break
befuddlement of the opposition
without a blinking compromise
The arrogant and the dumbfounded
together on the floor of the arena
March 5, 2006 (I was 61)
At one time a line of words
would come to my attention
in a tone of potential importance
and I would immediately write it raw
record it where I would encounter it again
or as often examine it then
listening to it
to think of what it might say next
or of what was said before
and to consider how those sounds sounded
Now after many a line of words
potential importance seems to be relative
Words that would not save the world
are relegated to the memory file
where they are easily forgotten or obscured
or absorbed by resounding sounds
and it is the consideration that is lost
the expressive struggle to say what it was
in such a way that another might believe it
or might offer an irresistible revision
