An act of writing is an occurance
Of experience. What is foregrounded
Are the minute particulars of being,
The chancy accidents of furthered demonstration,
Not the broad strokes, the grand organ stops of
History droning the deep notes endlessly through time,
Mendeleyev, Paine, Valery, Confucious, Trotsky.
The longer the time, the larger the name,
And eventually this name is also a word,
Another wave. But here, in the measurable intervals,
Still at the side of memory, the hands
Of pictured people feel still the treasures of smell,
Affording the great ideas the basic emphasis of presence
Yet granting attention its honored focus on immediacy.
Ring the bell, knock loudly, shake the curtains,
This rustling soon ends. Now listen. Do you still
Hear the names, or are you already digesting the nuances
Of noon, the adventure's hankering, the tingling
Push of pleasure's waiting gate? And walk, and ride
And sing, and touch.