My Precious


Spyglass Hill and the coming of age. I am listening, white threads against my red blouse. I am listening, but not well enough, the accent making me mistake "isolation" for "creation", and in my inattentiveness, the chest is lost, and found and lost again.

Arms around each other’s waist, doves mourning in the Tower’s chords.

Some see a player piano and others a dart board. They have found a crop circle with the stark beauty of watch works. A statement in a field of rapeseed, the quick brown fox of mathematics, combining every true thing: growth, arc, void, identity and the imaginary.

Truth bends in the presence of love, its heat, its well of gravity.

Sometimes we travel so far from something we may no longer recognize it, how we now think of thimbles as units of measure. Perhaps it's also possible to be so close that you only see the particles and bonds, the forces and ambiguity.

Convincing you of Venice from a glance through the doors
of the station, the dark marble and vaporetti, the diced light
on the Grand Canal, the doves.

People say "I don't know what to do with myself", like that scene in WALL-E where he dithers over where to put the spoonish fork. I've had friends who didn't know what to do with themselves, and most found their local minima, and some became Buddhists, and one did something terrible to all of us left behind.

"But, you didn't lose it here."
"I know, but the light is better."

I was sighting down a length of pine, and thinking about the old barn plank that bends around the wall of my parent's foyer. And it occurred to me that we make too much of warped wood, the most natural kind, wood that only requires the redemption of reciprocity.

Says, you’ve succumbed to the crutch of proximity, the comfort of echolocation.

The outline of the mountains against the edge of night
signs patience, love in Arabic, against the edge of night.

Says, where were you when passion came up for parole?

3500 years ago, a Hindu sage said the universe is 311 trillion years old. But this was only 100 years for the Brahma, who watches the creation and collapse of everything, time and again forever. The Atomists and the Pythagoreans and the Aristarcheans and the Copernicans and even the Newtonians just complicated things with ever-increasing degrees of precision.

There is the rushing to, and the allure of escape velocity.
Only one line runs through any two points, but they must stay still.

The way that coal runs veined beneath a sheet of ice. Imagine that and snowmelt, which results in silver. All those days of darkness. Now, the moon is up and rimmed with shadow, light. Halo and void, halo and void, the center will not hold. A small thing now, a handful of handsome. Ring. Ring. Do you hear that Mr. Anderson?