I feel the tongues of the old poets
They again tell their stories, snake like,
Of first wonders, pleiades and wind
Dreaming of dead friends
All of them strangely happy
Though they’re grey as donkeys
**
We children hid among trees and watched the old woman who we’d been told “had a lobotomy”and we saw her as a witch. We dug into our foxhole. She came out of her trailer home and swept her garden path with a broom. We were speechless, separate, ambiguous little creatures in the presence of nameless adult suffering. This is why pastoral verse is hopeless.
**
This is why memories in the middle of the night can’t be assuaged by TV. The sadness of others sweeps us. Caesar knew.
I get down on my knees and touch the ground. If forgiveness isn’t possible at least I can tap some Morse Code…
Planet of the Blind 