Monday, October 25, 2010
Machine: a reply to Robert Willson
Robert, the moment crumbles to dust almost as quickly as I can imagine it and write it. But you, in an instant, brand its essence onto my mind, as if my own flesh and hide were being burned. What is a reflection? Does it, as science suggests, die when its medium or source is removed? Or is it another form of memory, with a life of its own? There need not be an answer. But I’m grateful for the questions you have posed.
10.25.2010 #1 (poem)