when 3:13
it was foggy
and too careless
to measure the vastness of solitude
when 3:15
a slither of divine ache
clashed against a clump
of earth
probably though
it was against my
awfully wakeful heart.
when 3:17
my extended hand
kneads the air
and the eyes slough
a peel of memory
towards a new gloriousness
when 3:29
I show my membership card
staff smiles. They know me.
I ask: what’s the time?
3:29, they say.
3: 38
the southernmost minute’s gone
3:39
without consenting to our isolated reasons
when 3:43
I begin reading:
Religion is the last subject that the intellect beings to understand. In our youth we may have resented, with proud superiority, its cherished incredibilities; in our less confident years we marvel at its prosperous survival in a secular and scientific age, its patient resurrections after whatever deadly blows by Epicurus, or Lucretius, or Lucian, or Machiavelli, or Hume, or Voltaire. What are the secrets of this resilience?
when 3:45
I don’t want to smear eternity
with another coat of futility
when 3:59
got up comically
confusedly
coquettishly
can’t wait for spring to come
when 4:01
outside again
ready to concoct
some opaque purpose.
when 4:05
with a beer
throwing away the wreaths
of opinion that cling to my hair.
when 4:26
murmuring:
everyman’s angelic grave
4:26
surrender the surrounding suffering
4:27
for a sparse minute of peace.
Beyond Language 