Wednesday, March 31, 2010

...inspired by Lucille Clifton

The poem at the end of the world is the one that is punctuated perfectly, each syllable measured out to contain the transliteration of the human heart. It contains, too, that truth which is so elusive, which gives meaning to every little act. It elucidates what is otherwise obscure, and it vindicates the fallen. It is the only perfect use of language, and yet it crouches on the horizon like a thief. It shifts and disappears like a trick of the light. Makes us distrust it. It is not that we want so to possess it, or even to achieve it, but to lay it over or lives like a code-breaker, a veil though which each mineral truth might shine like veins of or in stone, and we, assured by the sudden movement into focus, might read hungrily there the surreptitious instructions for how to proceed. How to relinquish fear. How to let the bitterness dissolve.

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