No Way of Knowing
from Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975)
And then? Colors and names of colors, The knowledge of you a certain color had? The whole song bag, the eternal oom-pah refrain? Street scenes? A blur of pavement After the cyclists passed, calling to each other, Calling each other strange, funny-sounding names? Yes, probably, but in the meantime, waking up In the middle of a dream with one’s mouth full Of unknown words takes in all of these: It is both the surface and the accidents Scarring that surface, yet it too only contains As a book on Sweden only contains the pages of that book. The dank no-places and the insubstantial pinnacles— Both get carried away on the surface of a flood That doesn’t care about anything, Not even about minding its own business. There were holidays past we used to Match up, and yep, they fitted together All right, but the days in between grow rank, Consume their substance, orphan, disinherit But the air stands in curtains, reigns Like a centennial. No one can get in or out. These are parts of the same body: One could possibly live without some Such as a finger or elbow, but the head is Necessary, and what is in doubt here. This Morning it was off taking French lessons. Now it is resting and cannot be disturbed. Yes, but—there are no “yes, buts.” The body is what this is all about and it disperses In sheeted fragments, all somewhere around But difficult to read correctly since there is No common vantage point, no point of view Like the “I” in a novel. And in truth No one ever saw the point of any. This stubble field Of witnessings and silent lowering of the lids On angry screen-door moment rushing back To the edge of woods was always alive with its own Rigid binary system of inducing truths From starved knowledge of them. It has worked And will go on working. All attempts to influence The working are parallelism, undulating, writhing Sometimes but kept to the domain of metaphor. There is no way of knowing whether these are Our neighbors or friendly savages trapped in the distance By the red tape of a mirage. The fact that We drawled “hallo” to them just lazily enough this morning Doesn’t mean that a style was inaugurated. Anyway evening Kind of changes things. Not the color, The quality of a handshake, the edge on someone’s breath, So much as a general anxiety to get everything all added up, Flowers arranged and out of sight. The vehicular madness Goes on, crashing, thrashing away, but For many this is near enough to the end: one may Draw up a chair close to the balcony railing. The sunset is just starting to light up. As when the songs start to go Not much can be done about it. Waiting In vanilla corridors for an austere Young nurse to appear, an opaque glass vase of snapdragons On one arm, the dangerously slender heroine, Backbending over the other, won’t save the denouement Already drenched in the perfume of fatality. The passengers Reappear. The cut driver pushes them to heaven. (Waterford explodes over the flagstones.) At the same time that we are trying to spell out This very simple word, put one note After the other, push back the dead chaos Insinuating itself in the background like mists Of happy autumn fields—your money is dead. I like the spirit of the songs, though, The camaraderie that is the last thing to peel off, Visible even now on the woven pattern of branches And twilight. Why must you go? Why can’t you Spend the night, here in my bed, with my arms wrapped tightly around you? Surely that would solve everything by supplying A theory of knowledge on a scale with the gigantic Bits and pieces of knowledge we have retained: An LP record of all your favorite friendships, Of letters from the front? Too Fantastic to make sense? But it made the chimes ring. If you listen you can hear them ringing still: A mood, a Stimmung, adding up to a sense of what they really were, All along, through the chain of lengthening days.