too late for gods
We are too late for gods and too early for Being. Being's poem, just begun,|
is man. –Heidegger, from Poetry, Language and Thought
and even flesh becomes poetry}
solidity form curve and line imply but do not
convict. their evidence is not so sure, their eye
not so reliable.
appearance announces but birth is mere rumor. (Well hello there.)
play entices intending (us?)
in directions of myth, story, saga, fairy tale, allegory. and in
this we do not live archetypes they live us. sappho born again
and again, obatala birthed in the bodies he creates.
appearance is myth whose ownmost is far more than truth’s
suredness. fact is truth whose confidence is more not than is.
and i can not find, yet fingers caress touch trace
the edge of a book,
the line of your back
the path of cabinet angles.
poetry is the little tension at the center of every thing. language
that makes the impermanence of spring and sunlight’s sigh on
the first day of fall.
i can not say, but only this poem. i can not understand and
whose motion and stillness convey the
(dawn light breaks the edge of mind
t.k., tsogyelgar, traktung khepa