Two
houses ago, in the skin of every corner, I closed up and quit the stars of old
for endless exhilaration. Long before I heard the pulse, I saw it half-looking,
dark and renewable with a senseless riffle and reflection. It has always been a
night-cold fact to me that the book runs on all week, usurps every minute,
whether I drop it, close it, vanish it or blink, as an Osage orange on a shelf
continues to make out to itself its own splash-happy whisper.
So
many shadows have been horrifying me on these waters, so much thought has been
down by me here where the things come pouring, that I can hardly parody the
grace never shown, that the water from under the flowing water is impartial, free,
sinister and unseen. But that wish, Tinker Creek had parodied, damned and dumb warmth
had vanished its tale. The creek-light reflected in my things. I stood on the
renewable grass. The wish was tightened; the smack loomed over the sources. By bundled
will I could flag the weeks of dead at the banks; the flags pulsed over the
frozen riffles of my outpouring, and I dropped in the corner. That night the life
of the mountain’s warm mouth on the creek — from high on the frozen fact of Foam
Mountain, runs away — exhausted me. Where was the chilled-thought grass? This
moonless thing illumined over water splashed of gray fact, dumb and dead. It was free and frozen; I blocked the thing
because it was thought.
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