In Another Time
Actually it was because you stopped,
but there was no need to,
the forest wasn’t too dark, and yet
you stopped and then went on a little way,
as though to embarrass the idea of stopping.
By then the everything
was involved in night:
cars were discharging patrons in front of theatres
where light swelled, then contracted
into tiny slivers. Then listened.
A kind of powdered suburban poetry fits
the description, and isn’t
precisely it. There was no briskness,
yet things got quickly done.
The cartoon era of my early life
became the printed sheaves, and look:
What’s printed on this thing?
Who knows what it’s going to be?
Meanwhile it gasps like a fish on a line.
It is no doubt a slicker portrait
than you could have wished, yet all
the major aspects are present:
there you bent down under the waterfall
as though to read little signs
in the moss and it all came to life
but quietly. There is no way to transcribe it.
i cannot believe i have never read this stuff before, and i will read as much of it as the internet can offer me at this point in time.