Avant la lettre
I Alone, with the fluorescent lights on, I Surround myself with books and magazines And await the clap of metaphoric force That will dry my life of all its wetness— Gum up with meanings the endless flow Of single rooms, unconstellated stars, “Pure facts.” Tonight I try to hear the rain As though it were an example. Life, I’m told, Should imitate matter. Confused sensations Should bear the weight of syntax, and of course Sunday’s mucky residues do return In the argument, though shuffled. Among things With “spiritual weight,” guided so earnestly By the light of something that can never Be, some final reconciliation always Beyond reach— these unassuming lots, The stylus that evoked a lump of hay, Are closest to a subject of the song… And most things, really, are being pulled along By such lights. If not, they are probably Scanning Post Street for whatever minerals Might evidence The Gap, the solemn Gap which Restrains us from the nakedness of life By supposing that such nakedness exists. II A blue tarp covers over something wide, Rectangular, in front of the foreclosed Brick building. Black and white trash bags pile In the driveway, sawhorses, armchairs, A leaning white door torn from its hinge. Out front, the detached cab of a semitruck. Must I view these as examples, too? God knows of what, or if the story they make Is credible. A yes suggests the poem’s A good example of a courtroom, or The other way around. A no might send The fuzzy sound to one’s apartment, where All manner of chimes and cabbages will soon Be brought to order, otherwise “arranged.” The promise of a symptomatic life Was not the issue; rather, every season Produced a dozen further primal scenes To be consumed by guilty, conspicuous Letters. Weekends remained impossible. Ibuprofen and the gathering nimbus. And o’er the chimneys of suburban homes, O’er “the other stubborn thought,” silt piles, State Route Nine— grandiose theses mute Among a total absence of secrets.