THINGS RECEDE

THINGS RECEDE

 

Things recede back into the silence

like a tide back into itself

that will come forth again

like blood through the back door

of a house no one lives in anymore.

And the ghosts linger like return addresses

with nowhere to go

except where they’ve already been.

And there’s always an elephant in the dark

I can only know in part

by the trunk or the tail

and I know the darkness is trying to help

but it keeps giving me starmaps in braille

I have to burn

to see my way around.

And the wind forsakes my passage like a sail.

And I can hear the squeaky fanbelt

of the pigeon at my window

like a gray angel

in a sudden flurry of wings

but it never leaves a message

that means anything to me.

I keep trying to throw a light on clarity

but clarity doesn’t reveal itself

to the lucid or the blind

and what’s the point of looking

for your mind with your mind?

I shed my leaves on the themes of the present

like a forgiving autumn

and I can’t remember a time

when there wasn’t as much before me

as there was behind

whatever my age was.

How old is space?

And when did the lifelines

on the palms of my hands

move up to my face

like the frayed deltas of long rivers

flowing from the corners of my eyes?

I look at myself in the darkest mirror I can find

and it’s easy to see that it’s my passport

but the face is forged.

It’s the right country

but the wrong civilization.

All the right stars in the wrong constellation.

And death hasn’t convinced me yet

that it’s yoke is a bridge to the other side

and as often as not

I’m as bored to death as Spinoza’s ox

grinding its merciless platitudes

like stone lenses for near-sighted skies

but as far as I can see into the dark

death is nothing but a boorish predictability

and it’s life that always comes as a surprise.

If your roots are in heaven

your trees are walking on their heads

and the egg-cups of their broken crowns

are overthrown like empty shot glasses

after the birds have flown from your branches

like dust before a broom.

You’re sweeping stars off the stairs

when it’s as obvious as clouds

you’re upside-down.

Better to root in the wind like birds

and let your scales turn back into feathers

and realize the eagle with the serpent in its claws

are the god and the dragon of the same gene pool

enjoined by evolving laws

to raise the lowest to the highest

as if you were helping someone

get back on their feet.

And if you’ve got a bone

to pick with existence

over the little bit of red meat you are

like a leftover at a lion’s feast

crack yourself open like a koan

or a fortune-cookie.

The marrow’s sweet

and the lions are fat.

And no one’s going to deny you that.

 

PATRICK WHITE