Sunday, December 18, 2016

Nascimento Mori

I've been where you're going, but
You've never been where I am.
I can't report back to you,
Which makes both of us sorry.
Over and over, writers,
Painters, prophets, and doctors
Squint to compose the unknown,

Which remains, nevertheless,
Unknown. Imagination's
Forever Moses, peeking
At a promise. No, not that.
Imagination studies
How darkness falls where it can't
Go. It's the falling that's hard.

I went to sleep in the small,
Blank house of Senya Mori,
Under broad green leaves, green roof.
What he himself might have said
As to how similar sleep
Might be to what he does now,
He couldn't, I couldn't say.

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