Just one more of these, and I'll go to something
a little different.
This one is called "Plurality of Worlds."
Unlike most of them, the title does connect with the poem.
Not that the poem is any more meaningful than the others,
but it does go with it in some way.
"Plurality of Worlds."
And each inhabited.
And each inhabitant resolves.
And I, I with my various processes,
I stumble, I revolve.
As one sees, in the desert, water welling, always distant,
forever unapproachable.
A view of the chase from the battlements.
To see something-- anything--
I always step back.
And then, where am I?
Distant.
Unapproachable.
My name, Jericho.
That's a joke.
Waldrop and Jericho-- the walls fall down.
Nobody has ever laughed at that until I explain
it, in which somehow, I don't think
they're laughing at the joke.
But anyway--
My name, Jericho.
Absurdly-- I mean, out of tune.
And forgetfulness, deceit, error?
For us to grow old, the moon must rise.
From invisible fire, flames leap into view,
a dream of bodily heaven.
Hot colors, subtle nuances.
Motives recast in site after site.
Figures absorbed by a plethora of drapery.
I must remove all this--
evening chill, an impression of transparency, your presence--
remove it all, without letting anything go.
I was born in December, and things seem always
to come at me like January.
The fifty-third bird in the tree that morning.
Joy, laughter, lamentation-- it's like a map.
Minuet.
Waltz.
Ninety percent too dark to see.
Let me think now--
roads, tombs, temples.
I could list my friends.
What will I forget next?
Light, analyzed by dusk, and then?
The specters still there, a painterly softening,
almost heraldic poses.
Long narrow slits of light, dark bars against bright ground,
or straight-line borders peculiarly oriented.
Looking one way, everything is lost.
The other direction-- nothing to lose.
In a crystal, I glimpse, maybe, my working state.
My soul's fictitious body--
think.
My health-- the world's long lingering illness.
Pain, hot-cold, mere contact.
Crude sensory modalities.
These remain after destruction of the sensory cortex.
Pain, shock waves, feathery feet of barnacles--
it does not reach us, the sun's bottomless profundo.
Things age, and when old enough, no longer able to resist
become animate.
Unable to stay free of life.
What remains of ancient rites?
Grammar.
I would never give up anything I have,
in return for mere certainty.