Ulysses Recapitulates
N’apparve una montagna
—Dante, Inferno, Canto 26
Not a wreckage so much as a slow
slipping-under-the-water,
which, what with the good wind from the east and the good
rocks underneath,
we might have seen coming,
had we not had our eyes fixed on it:
the seven ridiculous plateaus;
the arrogant spiraling up and out from the waves; and, too
(though they could’ve been slow-
moving trees from that distance),
the penitent faithful, hunched and sleepwalking
from garden to garden . . .
the arrogant spiraling up and out from the waves; and, too
(though they could’ve been slow-
moving trees from that distance),
the penitent faithful, hunched and sleepwalking
from garden to garden . . .
*
Of course we didn’t believe
until then. Who could?
Foolish to put too much stock in another life. Not when this one
(I say this one, though I mean
that one) is (was)
staring you down. Not, at least, without some proof.
until then. Who could?
Foolish to put too much stock in another life. Not when this one
(I say this one, though I mean
that one) is (was)
staring you down. Not, at least, without some proof.
*
Still, a sight’s a sight better than most get—
even if I did feel,
I confess, some relief when it was over. Always easier to sit
than stand, or so
they say in here (though down’s more accurate,
if more expected) . . .
But you do wonder, now and then, especially
when a little breeze gets in and you taste the salt in the stale air . . .
even if I did feel,
I confess, some relief when it was over. Always easier to sit
than stand, or so
they say in here (though down’s more accurate,
if more expected) . . .
But you do wonder, now and then, especially
when a little breeze gets in and you taste the salt in the stale air . . .
You wonder, that’s all. Such a hounding. Such shiver.
But what’s a tadpole
to a God-spewed river?
But what’s a tadpole
to a God-spewed river?
