The other world
is this world too. If metaphor
is wisdom, what of
ferns wearing their early sunlight like nothing else, or the high and
the low pitched birds, or the deaf cat's mewling? This is where
world strips down, for which there's
metaphor, but none now.
To record an image doesn't
clothe the poem, but admits
to what is here. I hear a tour helicopter, and I know what it looks
at. New land erupts
in sulfur steam near Kalapana; the caldera stains night sky a
blotched red. The sky is blue. The
spider web catches light and makes it white. Image stripped to image,
point of gravel in the road after last night's rain.
--4
August 2016
[Transtromer,
from Zwicky, #27]
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