Sunday, April 7, 2013

Monsieur Dasein a de beaux moments

"The most beautiful moments, the most
dreadful quarter hours," to quote the wag

with a perhaps a touch of envy at the staggering
ambition of his totalizing contemporary.

You don't have to be a huge fan of either,
nor of opera, nor even of animated parodies

involving carrot-chomping cartoons in blonde
wigs and horned iron helmets to feel the pull

of that witticism, to feel, in a slightly offended,
slightly contented sort of way, your life

resembles that remark. Moments remain
memorable for being unretainable,

for never remaining, not even even for
one moment, while clock wings, sundials,

moons, seasons, calendars, forever
entertain the stunning power

of appearing stupendously inert
at any moment of closer inspection.

You can feel this, yes, and yet never
guess whether the quarter hours

are the actual authors of the beauty
with which the moments, passing

as these rustles of light rearranging
shadows, manage to enchant us.

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