II

If I am to make my point, I will have
To present the evidence as though it
Were born to corroborate (i.e. I
Will have to smudge the recognizable
Out of it, until I've nothing but
A fine red pulp, ostensibly of some fruit
The likes of which can be found no longer
On the bare-boned Parnassian branches
That make the laureled poets wince, itching
For the golden fronds of old). Beauty is
Not truth, it's something better, like good wine.
Or bad wine, for that matter, like the kind
We'd take with us over the sound: it does
What it sets out to do. The results are
Astounding. Truth, in any case, cancels
The question, which I've always found to be
Stimulating enough, a reason
To dispense with reason and live in total
Darkness, albeit colorful darkness.
The joys of inhabiting one's own world,
Comprised as it is of misconceptions,
Parallels, inconsistencies, foibles,
Hits and misses, puns, errata, faux-pas,
Ironies, misprints, semblances, run-ons,
Circumlocutions, slip-ups, forgeries,
Saving graces, convolutions, and non-
Sequiturs, are beyond compare, and snuffed
Instantaneously in that cutting
Light. Better to speak in blunt ellipses
Than to draw unwanted focus to
The place where the half line fizzles, the absent
Center. It isn't there for us, except
In the occasional dream, an after-
Thought. Let's see what we can glean without it.

Back to the piecemeal narrative: I stood
Overlooking the isle in all its fierce
Array, decked and splayed, etc. It
Was, as they say, "powerful cold", and I
Was minus a few buttons. The Williamsburg
Bridge, bicyclists whizzing, blue beams framing
The frigid isolate stars, and over
The river, the defiant shoreline snaps.
Emerging now from the rift, that hour
On the balcony, different scene, same deal,
Pretending to read The Occasions, but
Following instead the progress of a
Sparrow from ledge to ledge on the building
Opposite. O.K., this never happened.
This did: looking out from a small window
Below my house proper, I saw that it,
The sky, was an uncanny violet hue.
When I came to the front porch, I saw three
Bats circling near a low cloud. The cloud
Was circling in the opposite
Direction to the bats. At one time, I
Had meant to say something to you about
These incidents, because it seemed as if
They had actually transpired. But,
Who are you? This question may never be
Answered satisfactorily. You get
To make of it what you will, in the end.
For me it's not a matter of intent,
Although I don't speak off the cuff. You nod
Or mark it up with crosshatchings as though
It were a blueprint, which it is, only
Raw materials go into it, and
When it's done, you've something resembling
A finished product, although it hobbles
On stumps, and can't agree with anyone's
Opinion of it. Weeks go by, and still
There is little or nothing to be said
On its behalf. And that's the point where we
Lose interest. Great things have happened in our
Lives since then very, very important things.

Having trailed off again, I think it
Fit time for a dialogue, perhaps in
Evaluation of the poem thus
Far. Am I staying on target, hitting
The necessary marks? Let us turn to
Our correspondent on the front: Geoff Klock.
Tell me if you know, why, having nothing
At all to say, I have chosen to devote
My time to the saying of it? G.K.:
Obviously some prevalent bent for
Bathos is at fault, my friend. I cannot
Imagine why otherwise you would choose
The present form. R.B.: Does that
Imply that you feel the material
Is misplaced, dealt with ineffectually?
G.K.: What material? I've not yet
Known you to deal with the matter at hand
In any tangible way. It is more
An ether that you, I would think, would set
Before us, one whose existence is quickly
Disproven. R.B.: Yes, but in
The time that we believe it to be there,
Real light has traveled through it. G.K.: And
While we read, something harnessed in the words
Almost bursts them, so that we are left with
Mere fragments, but humming one and all.
R.B.: So you feel that the enterprise
Would benefit from a lack of restraint?
G.K.: Admittedly you err, but this
Is inevitable. Perhaps the most
Noble pursuit is that which ends in
Failure. If you set your sights too high, you,
Like our neglected friend, must soon plummet,
Making hardly a splash. But the idea
Is to roll the rock for its sake alone,
And for the sake of coming closer,
Ever closer to the untouchable web
Standing, shimmering, there for you alone.