4. Ars Poetica at the Window

The history of this moment lengthens in shadow.

Trying to see the past, the light from a lamp is sucked up.

Leaving one in a field of static with a little music in the background.

This isn't hard to fathom after midnight.

There are whole sections of the brain without road traffic.

Domains where the mind is but a knapsack.

One needed little things, toiletries and the like, in the countryside.

The swirling of the river should have told us.

That whatever tries to move in a straight line shall be forced aside.

Shall be bent at every turn, creating a continuous arc.

And so that arcing shall draw a spiral, as it must.

This is clear after midnight, when striving shrivels.

I crave an intimacy too private to speak of.

Truly, one must close one's eyes to see.

True today, true tomorrow, true in the posthumous present.

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