Saturday, January 28, 2017

What You’ve Always Wanted You Have Found

Lightning flicks – a humming glimmer of midsummer –
dusk, as if dusk were a kind of musk, a scent, perfume –
more smelled than seen – the kind of trick the mind
plays when it conjures up from who-knows-what
an apparition of the dreamed-for – oh, the passionately
schemed-for!: sudden deluge of belief which surely,
psychically, you've rushed to pour as refuge and relief –

the momentary certainty that what you've always wanted
you have found. This is when the dusk becomes a sound –
a Mendelssohn slow movement from a string quartet:
rapturous and slightly odd – grace notes captured from
a minor god – brings senses just precisely to the juncture –
sweet intoxicating point – where they imagine they
have punctured through to something like a breathing,

jointed whole: a truth: a soul with corporeal muscle,
bone: companionable tone: voluptuous, ethereal – that
smell of dusk again: finally a habitable zone! Write
a book and fall in love, and in the framing of that miracle,
experience a joining of your disparate centralities –
below, above: dichotomies release and cease, and
you've the first sense in your life of an illumined peace.


Fast-forward through the decades: fumble with the lock
and key to your now long-familiar door: stumble into
your bright-lit imbroglio of glaring middle-day – too clear
to miss this boon of noon – blaring out an enterprise
you can't dismiss, this mission whose demands you've

taken up, this antidote to easy bliss: yes: hard to strain
from all this blinding light alternatives to that soft
long-gone musk-besotted night: there are no books to write,
no love that you could possibly requite: a different order
in your living heart obtains. Losses, and peculiar gains.

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