since the death of Poetry History has stayed inside his books and shelves, eking solace from the complex carpet shadows. i sat with him today and heard how we have built such boxes for ourselves; the shadows creeping on the walls seemed to agree.
i took a walk to ask the Sea such things: he moves oh ceaselessly and as we surged along he said it's true the saddest thing he ever sees (and i think he must see everything) are shores made not of sand and time but marble stone glass porcelain and plastic metal or convenience: we bottle him and everyone.
then, still-standing in their absence i thought of you, o departed Poetry. you would have had such answers and behind them and around them you would write such slim smiles in your sparkling cavernous eyes. yesterday the world, i'd tell you, it smelled such of bright fall and the deepest joyful death. ah, how the leaves depart this world! but i had wished you would not be the same.
11/5/08
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