8.21.2020

there have been too many complications of late

To express. Nothing can be expressed. 
Fire under a stove lid. Anastasia is making pancakes. 
December. Before dawn. In a village near Jaszuny. 
I should be dead already, but there is work to do. 
From human speech to the muteness of verse, how far! 
It spreads out, the valley, signs, lights. 
The mild valley of those who are eternally alive. 
They walk by green waters. 
With red ink they draw on my breast 
A heart and the signs of a kindly welcome. 
To praise. Only this has been left 
To the one who ponders, slowly, 
Misfortune upon misfortune and from which side they struck. 
People near me don’t know how difficult it is to pretend that 
         nothing happened, that everything is normal. 
I loved God with all my strength on the sandy roads that wound 
         through focus. 
Where is the memory of those days that were your days on earth 
And effectuated joy and pain and were for you the universe. 
Low, beneath, in darkness, 
A table and on it a thick book 
And a hand inscribing something… 
At the gate of Hell she stood, naked. 
I want to describe the world as Lucretius did. 
Yet there have been too many complications of late. 
And the words in the dictionary are too few. 
So I just say of the world, like Galileo: and yet it moves. 
She slipped out of her panties, Lady Polixena. 
My love in the dream, a squirrel in a hazel bush. 
Cities! You have never been described. 
The grown-ups led the cortege, deep in their stupid conversations. 
The river Wilia flows, indifferent. 
Stricken with pity and loathing. 

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