Sunday, August 14, 2005


To see things as they are is hard, but leaving them alone is harder; rocks in patches in the backyard, the vacuum in the sky, and in the soul the movements of temptation and refusal. I felt a day break. Nothing happened. The windows gave upon a street where cars drove by as usual to the faint, unearthly measures of a music whose evasions struggled to conceal a disappointment all the deeper that the hope was for a thing I knew to be unreal. I can't do it yet. Perhaps no one can do it yet. The unconstructed gaze is still a fiction of the heart, a hope that hides the boring truth of life within the limits of the real, a life whose only heaven is the surface of a slowly turning globe. Yet still I want to think I woke one day to —To what? The wet trees, an earthly silence and the fresh, falling leaves of a first morning?


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