elements, yet each wound in the web that’s torn apart,
then stitched, then fused, the gleaming cicatrix
become the very twisting of the thread.
Can one encounter fix the axis of a life?
A single glance, the brush of hands,
an indrawn breath: all specificities
preshadow loss, hold at their centre
absence, empty echo of the ardent voice.
When I have won through to the end, done
with the world, I shall have made it simple,
clear, the infinite variety of circumstance
set to one side so that in this,
my world, there will exist no tragedy.
Jan Zwicky
No comments:
Post a Comment