Monday, July 14, 2014

Some Things Will Never Be Known

“'It’s a dark forest,' she said of the masked men in one interview with a Russian television station. 'I don’t know who they are, or what they are.' Soon afterward, she vanished."

Kha. Ambara. Akasha. Sunya.
No atmosphere on the moon,
Space empty of life, watching life.

I am happy to know I am not.
Esse in intellectu solo. I am
At ease with the monstrosity

That fascinates me. I am not
Comfortable with the deceit
That monstrosity is ordinary,

Even ethical, indignant, esse
In res. No. The reason the moon
And the deep, dark woods

Go together in our minds
Remains a flicker of panic.
One is baleful, beautiful,

The other filled with grotesques
Who would happily eat little
Monkeys like us. We know.

But I know, too, the moon
And the forest of creaking
Branches it peeks at me through

Are not, of themselves, the things
That make such magic nervousness,
Just the bodily inheritance

Convenient to the need thereof.
We, I, you, they also, sense the truth
Means, wide-eyed, to disappear.

God bless the woods, the moon.
God bless me. The shapes of love
Carve a part from fine, terrible dark.

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