A perfect ending already contains another beginning.
There was news of falling stars - or was it just what remained from another world, from some distant, deep time?- making itself available to us, even if only briefly. Stay with the news. In the darkest hour such wondrous gold and silver flare and shine, these silent journeys flowing into our lives, like a dark fish, like a shadow cast by the black sun.
Remind yourself of small circles, how much is mercifully unknown. There was something of Blake about the time. Seeing things in a dream can be more real than reality...
Over the years some beautiful poetry: Supervielle, W.S. Mewrin, Sappho, Transtromer; and some very good poetry as well: Gunter Eich, Ceravolo, K. Irby- each with their moments. And now, Denise's sublime Evening Train.
What are these lists but a concession to a bourgeois point of view?
Our own endings a series of imperfect deaths.
Another day: what was sent forth, and what was received?
The season draws to an end. The light of a late summer day falls suddenly as an autumn evening arrives out of nowhere. The back doors are no longer left open, your hand finally understands something of the heart. You're more aware of your clothes now, your ageing body, the distances, the empty roads, the memory of arrivals, departures.
~~~
You sit on the bench with the swami, waiting for the W14. It is evening and the street is deserted. We sit and silently remember all the meals we've had, all the time that has passed and seems so long ago, so recent. We sit there without much to say. We both look out to the road. Long pauses. In the 14 minutes it takes the bus to arrive she grows younger by 20 or 30 years. There is a wondrous blue light all around us and no time whatsoever.
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