“Why does the author make us stay in a deserted room when he could just as easily take us upstairs?”
Lit experience their plots,
Tangling their own denouements
In thickets of read and felt.
There is no telos except
Repetition, no perfect
Repetition, so that change
Becomes its own destiny,
All sameness variation
And every variation
Containing something the same.
How thoroughly exhausting
It is to experience
Life in this shifting cosmos,
To observe how exhaustive
The cosmos is at changing
Minuscule shifts at a time.
Patterns emerge, erasing
Patterns erasing patterns.
Nothing can document them,
But not another story
Twisting in search of its own
Conclusion and completion.
The tail is only serpent.
The bare room’s light is shifting,
Would be shifting anyway,
Even with people in it,
Even if we left with them.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.