if one has leisure, realizing, suddenly, remembering
that now there will be no one that will know one at some given moment, see
or hear one, listen to
one’s voice, one will discover, looking back
whom formerly, if anyone, one loved,
identifying them (in retrospect) by one’s remembrance of some satisfaction
at something one had said to them—at having said it—
that seemed to one informative, that is,
an indication of oneself within the range of reason
& observation: as though—we know there is no bridge—
across the pillars of the bridge there isn’t one had jumped, delivered
the letter, returned & now again was standing on the other side
& felt that one had managed to put aside, in stealth, a little of oneself
in trust which time now on its visits could not get at,
search as it might one’s person: it was gone.
The other had it.
The selfish chance to make these dubious gifts of knowledge of oneself
is lost at death.
To have space means to extend, and perhaps to move, to have
place around one, defended or
desired. You can stretch,
having lain down
can get up.
And perhaps walk some distance.
Space stretches, extension, in all directions from any point
at all times unaltered.
The calculations of the engineers to whom sunlight moves notwithstanding,
it is the shadow of perspective of the hypothetical eye, the sheer
possibility of your movement onward, time
permitting, your time. Could a man aging at an extremely low rate of speed
move straight (as they say: straight) onward forever?
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