He does not see deeply , but-still-one thing behind another.
He keeps a tiny bird, folded like a sheet of paper.
Twice two is four-still-and a circle has no angles.
Body sheds shoulder,jaw.
However body may appear, the soul comes
back in scars.
[There are no dead . Only names.]
Too close, ruin wrinkles the surface-his breath bothers reality. The
sun pours down. The pots are mended.
An unfolding, from where it is all contained.
The ships have been salvaged . [I do not know what body he has in
mind.] Clothing is resumed. Temples are rebuilt.
"Which body?" we inquire, while all the liars cry out, "Verily!"
As though all this were in the dark.
Here is a column of soldiers, a heap of apples, an avenue of trees. Here
a swarm of bees, of birds, a row of equidistant lines. A
set
if
unequal objects
distributes the field of vision.
Here is the painted world in an actual image.
[I
have no theory for the
clouds he sees.]
DEBORA GREGER
The Laurel Tree
by
the River
Then she saw the waters.
...
"0
father," she cried, "heLp me!
if
you rivers really have some divine
powers, work some traniformation, and destray this beauty which makes me pLease aLL too weLL."
1
The mountains come down to water level,
the water rising to meet the mud,
ducks mating in the muck
in the season of love.
Ovid: Daphne to Peneus
