A surprise for me again, to look upon the world with lowered eyes, to plumb the endless pipes of your thoughts, and to discover how little the world thinks, how little it wants to think, with what difficulty it ellides the whirl of the senses, or how we are but broken boats floating on the surface of the deepest sea, riding the forceful currents of the present, tiding this way and that to the tune of the loneliest stars latched in the loftless dark.
We seem to be caught in an endless seasonal drift, the constant patterns, like the soft shedding evening lights that spill around the spines of cool shaded buildings in which children play, in shadowed ruins at once homey and familiar and hallowed with sacred memory, strengthening in fleshly perfomance, against the ghost of the receding present.
So the sand recedes from beach where the lighthouse once stood, and where the calm rocks brace the winds. Where was the peak to which we clamber, caught in some essential ectasy?
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