Map (16 page)

For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.

 

 

I believe in the great discovery.

I believe in the man who will make the discovery.

I believe in the fear of the man who will make the discovery.

 

I believe in his face going white,

his queasiness, his upper lip drenched in cold sweat.

 

I believe in the burning of his notes,

burning them into ashes,

burning them to the last scrap.

 

I believe in the scattering of numbers,

scattering them without regret.

 

I believe in the man's haste,

in the precision of his movements,

in his free will.

 

I believe in the shattering of tablets,

the pouring out of liquids,

the extinguishing of rays.

 

I am convinced this will end well,

that it will not be too late,

that it will take place without witnesses.

 

I'm sure no one will find out what happened,

not the wife, not the wall,

not even the bird that might squeal in its song.

 

I believe in the refusal to take part.

I believe in the ruined career.

I believe in the wasted years of work.

I believe in the secret taken to the grave.

 

These words soar for me beyond all rules

without seeking support from actual examples.

My faith is strong, blind, and without foundation.

 

 

Beloved Brethren,

we have before us an example of incorrect proportions.

Behold! the dinosaur's skeleton looms above—

 

Dear Friends,

on the left we see the tail trailing into one infinity,

on the right, the neck juts into another—

 

Esteemed Comrades,

in between, four legs that finally mired in the slime

beneath this hillock of a trunk—

 

Gentle Citizens,

nature does not err, but it loves its little joke:

please note the laughably small head—

 

Ladies, Gentlemen,

a head this size does not have room for foresight,

and that is why its owner is extinct—

 

Honored Dignitaries,

a mind too small, an appetite too large,

more senseless sleep than prudent apprehension—

 

Distinguished Guests,

we're in far better shape in this regard,

life is beautiful and the world is ours—

 

Venerated Delegation,

the starry sky above the thinking reed

and moral law within it—

 

Most Reverend Deputation,

such success does not come twice

and perhaps beneath this single sun alone—

 

Inestimable Council,

how deft the hands,

how eloquent the lips,

what a head on these shoulders—

 

Supremest of Courts,

so much responsibility in place of a vanished tail—

 

 

I know I'll be greeted by silence, but still.

No uproar, no fanfare, no applause, but still.

No alarm bells, and nothing alarming.

 

I don't expect even a shriveled leaf,

to say nothing of silver palaces and gardens,

venerable elders, righteous laws,

wisdom in crystal balls, but still.

 

I understand that I don't walk the moon

in search of ladies' rings and vanished ribbons.

They pick everything up in advance.

 

Nothing left to suggest that . . .

Trash, castoffs, peelings, scraps, crumbs,

chips, shavings, shards, bits, pieces.

 

Of course I only bend over a pebble

that bears no hint of where they've gone.

They don't like leaving signs.

They're peerless in the art of erasing traces.

 

I've known it for ages: the gift of vanishing just in time,

their divine ungraspability by horns or tail,

by the hem of a robe ballooning in flight.

A hair never falls from their heads that I might snatch.

 

They're always one thought smarter,

one step ahead, I can never catch up,

they let me play at being first.

 

They aren't there, they never were, but still

I have to keep telling myself,

don't be a child, stop seeing things.

 

And whatever just hopped from underfoot

didn't get far, it toppled over, trampled,

and though it stirs again

and emits a long-drawn muteness,

it's a shadow—too much my own to point the way.

 

 

I lost a few goddesses while moving south to north,

and also some gods while moving east to west.

I let several stars go out for good, they can't be traced.

An island or two sank on me, they're lost at sea.

I'm not even sure exactly where I left my claws,

who's got my fur coat, who's living in my shell.

My siblings died the day I left for dry land

and only one small bone recalls that anniversary in me.

I've shed my skin, squandered vertebrae and legs,

taken leave of my senses time and again.

I've long since closed my third eye to all that,

washed my fins of it and shrugged my branches.

 

Gone, lost, scattered to the four winds. It still surprises me

how little now remains, one first person sing., temporarily

declined in human form, just now making such a fuss

about a blue umbrella left yesterday on a bus.

 

 

Why, after all, this one and not the rest?

Why this specific self, not in a nest,

but a house? Sewn up not in scales, but skin?

Not topped off by a leaf, but by a face?

Why on earth now, on Tuesday of all days,

and why on earth, pinned down by this star's pin?

In spite of years of my not being here?

In spite of seas of all these dates and fates,

these cells, celestials, and coelenterates?

What is it really that made me appear

neither an inch nor half a globe too far,

neither a minute nor eons too early?

What made me fill myself with me so squarely?

Why am I staring now into the dark

and muttering this unending monologue

just like the growling thing we call a dog?

 

 

So much world all at once—how it rustles and bustles!

Moraines and morays and morasses and mussels,

the flame, the flamingo, the flounder, the feather—

how to line them all up, how to put them together?

All the thickets and crickets and creepers and creeks!

The beeches and leeches alone could take weeks.

Chinchillas, gorillas, and sarsaparillas—

thanks so much, but all this excess of kindness could kill us.

Where's the jar for this burgeoning burdock, brooks' babble,

rooks' squabble, snakes' squiggle, abundance, and trouble?

How to plug up the gold mines and pin down the fox,

how to cope with the lynx, bobolinks, streptococs!

Take dioxide: a lightweight, but mighty in deeds;

what about octopodes, what about centipedes?

I could look into prices, but don't have the nerve:

these are products I just can't afford, don't deserve.

Isn't sunset a little too much for two eyes

that, who knows, may not open to see the sun rise?

I am just passing through, it's a five-minute stop.

I won't catch what is distant; what's too close, I'll mix up.

While trying to plumb what the void's inner sense is,

I'm bound to pass by all these poppies and pansies.

What a loss when you think how much effort was spent

perfecting this petal, this pistil, this scent

for the one-time appearance, which is all they're allowed,

so aloofly precise and so fragilely proud.

 

 

The Master hasn't been among us long.

That's why he lies in wait in every corner.

Covers his eyes and peeks through the cracks.

Faces the wall, then suddenly turns around.

 

The Master rejects outright the ridiculous thought

that a table out of sight goes on being a table nonstop,

that a chair behind our backs stays stuck in chairlike bounds

and doesn't even try to fly the coop.

 

True, it's hard to catch the world being different.

The apple tree slips back under the window before you can blink.

Incandescent sparrows always grow dim just in time.

Little pitchers have big ears and pick up every sound.

The nighttime closet acts as dull as its daytime twin.

The drawer does its best to assure the Master

it holds only what it's been given.

And no matter how fast you open the Brothers Grimm,

the princess always manages to take her seat again.

 

“They sense I'm a stranger here,” the Master sighs,

“they won't let a new kid play their private games.”

 

Since how can it be that whatever exists

can only exist in one way,

an awful situation, for there's no escaping yourself,

no pause, no transformation? In a humble from-here-to-here?

A fly caught in a fly? A mouse trapped in a mouse?

A dog never let off its latent chain?