Monday, October 4, 2010
What greater illusion
What greater illusion than life itself, other than the absence of it? Kicking through the leaves, a god, grown weary, might wonder the same thing. In the void, defined as sleep by some, and as emptiness by others — as if emptiness were a song comprised of one infinite black note and sleep were a place to which we might safely, predictably
return — or likened to oblivion, or death, oblivion a form of grief too vast and deep to discern, an ocean in an eye, death one last confession between hand and glove — there is nothing yet ordained, no word spoken or left unsaid, not the ghost of a syllable or haunted breath, and this too is illusion, a fist or palm unwilling to exist, the wars of entire histories neither waged nor imagined, antiquity, Babel, virtue, sound, legions of unborn slaves and scribes, until a sigh, arriving like wind through a frozen sky, born of direction henceforth circumscribed, a ripple in the mind of time, an urge to name that justifies cause, face against glass proclaiming self to self, effusion of stars to sudden stone, laughter down to the last good oar, down to the weight around your neck, contrives to remind you that you are here.
“What greater illusion” added to Poems, Slightly Used.