We have come to see the name of an old man
His name in a very old place
It is raining here it doesn’t matter
Our fingers go to the memory shape
As if they could feed on stone
This is the sort of translation
He did all his life
Thinking back before you?
It’s like turning my mind
it is impossible to be.
The sea above
was there. A quai.
I was launched.
My eyes undone.
The thought of open
and you were there
A blue mind of lion,
like a pencil
in a hospital.
Blue. For example, whether I pull this blue fleece pullover over my face with my glasses on, or stop to remove them, in the middle of the night, does awkwardness have any meaning? I want to keep the glasses on, must want the hindrance, the impediment, the form that doesn’t fit over the form, exactly, right. I must want the hindrance, the difficulties, a lifetime of talking. Blue.
People, artistic people, prefer symbols to facts.
There is more of a river to navigate,
a foggy horizon ahead, banks with disappearing trees.
There is a barge to fill and pull. But facts
are symbols too. Examine facts closely,
and you’ll see they’re heading up the same river of fog.