sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words. That’s twice I
forgot to take slips from the library counter.
His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till
the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in
the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur’s rod
of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet
night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from
me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of
my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will read these written
words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice.
The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel
hat : veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard.
Coloured on a flat : yes, that’s right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far,
flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now. Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope.
Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do
you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us
yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.
She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the
blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of
the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges
Figgis’ window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were
going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided jesse of
her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park, with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of
letters. Talk that to some one else, Stevie : a pickmeup. Bet she wears those
curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.
Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Where are your wits?
Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch
me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone.
Sad too. Touch, touch me.
He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled
note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on his eyes. That is Kevin
Egan’s movement I made nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et vidit Deus.
Et erant valde bona. Alo! Bonjour, welcome as the flowers in May. Under its
leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am
caught in this burning scene. Pan’s hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy
serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide.
Pain is far.