By the time you are
by the time you come to be
by the time you read this
by the time you are written
by the time you forget
by the time you are water through fingers
by the time you are taken for granted
by the time it hurts
by the time it goes on hurting
by the time there are no words for you
by the time you remember
but without names
by the time you are in the papers
and on the telephone
passing unnoticed there too
who is it
to whom you come
before whose very eyes
you are disappearing
without making yourself known?
To the Present Tense, W.S. Merwin
Each word, as someone once wrote, contains the universe.
The visible carries all the invisible on its back.
Tonight, in the unconditional, what moves in the long-limbed grasses,
what touches me
As though I didn’t exist?
What is it that keeps on moving,
a tiny pillar of smoke
Erect on its hind legs,
loose in the hollow grasses?
A word I don’t know yet, a little word, containing infinity,
Noiseless and unrepentant, in sift through the dry grass.
Under the tongue is the utterance.
Under the utterance is the fire, and then the only end of fire.
A Short History of the Shadow, Charles Wright
The visible carries all the invisible on its back.
Tonight, in the unconditional, what moves in the long-limbed grasses,
what touches me
As though I didn’t exist?
What is it that keeps on moving,
a tiny pillar of smoke
Erect on its hind legs,
loose in the hollow grasses?
A word I don’t know yet, a little word, containing infinity,
Noiseless and unrepentant, in sift through the dry grass.
Under the tongue is the utterance.
Under the utterance is the fire, and then the only end of fire.
A Short History of the Shadow, Charles Wright
Am I losing my mind?
Cause this thing called time's an illusion that we all trust
Nothing retains its form; new shapes from old.
Nature, the great inventor, ceaselessly contrives.
In all creation, be assured, there is no death—no death,
but only change and innovation; what we people call birth
is but a different new beginning; death is but
to cease to be the same.
Perhaps this may have moved to that and that to this,
yet still the sum of things remains the same.
Ovid, Metamorphoses, Pythagoras (via)
Nature, the great inventor, ceaselessly contrives.
In all creation, be assured, there is no death—no death,
but only change and innovation; what we people call birth
is but a different new beginning; death is but
to cease to be the same.
Perhaps this may have moved to that and that to this,
yet still the sum of things remains the same.
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