That love, genesis of the mind, suffers
faults is its triumph
and cloistered
consolation. Could he try
to be clearer?
The waste is, perhaps, Sion — chosen
once upon a time (where all
stories begin) to lie
in shadows. I know
it’s debatable. I
know.
You saw it the same
as I; our vision is the same
and suffers the same myopia:
haze-engulfed Golgotha,
crucifix hidden beneath
degenerate miasma —
the empty tomb forgotten.
To us even sin finds doom —
everything ends in such. What
I want to know: What virtue
deserves the name? Bravery runs
to self-ruin and idols
breed from the mind.
The Tree did not beget
knowledge, but a kind of ego
centrism, trophæum peccati, not true
self-knowledge, but sensory deception.
What can you trust, Brooke,
that is neither mind nor sense?
Calvin’s admirable gifts
from the Creator
lost among the fallen
organs of perception would never
lead you to boast since
all light is lost in understanding. How
depressing he is. Couldn’t
he please say something nice?
Two glasses — mirrors — there are: one,
imagination; the other,
fatal. Rotting old age reminds
one of gangrenous life
in lineament or air, the well-
defined and the ethereal equally
equivocal. No, they are not
the same but display
similitude, if one cares to know,
though I doubt one does.
We, you and I, Brooke, forget
the scales … you know,
from the eyes? Easily
forgotten, though not trivial.
Confound his rhetoric, neither
logical nor grammatical. Who could
follow? Unseen Damascus
follow? Unseen Damascus
right where I left it — left
the road entirely. Who
have I become?
Poet blind to eschaton, to something
more than iniquitous
deformity, to power
and truth, almighty and eternal,
the end is near. The end
has its own genesis with its
own fruit, the mirror
of transgression, admittedly
figurative as well as fatal — such is poetry:
union of Christ
and imagination. They are not
the same, only similar.
Self-love, a related self
of piety, cannot survive in acute
knowledge of depravity, as such:
choosing not to be chosen
is everyone’s first choice — all
chamber-pots for the Almighty. Can’t
he say something nice? I’m
trying. It’s not easy.
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