It always seems to begin with an image; dark, churning water, a tree dying in a meadow far from the eyes of any man, a hand reaching out in the rain, a pot-black sky pulsing with illuminations, Crispus Atticus as he falls to the ground drowning in his blood, that dagger of Borges waiting for the killer’s hand, energy and potential energy, the manifestation of arcs, of trajectories, you, your eyes, the sons, the children we created that were never born, the children dead within us like wasps in the making of figs, your hands, your pictures, your shadows, that swirl of luminesence as we dip and pull the oars, the old clock from Indiana, the pendulum and the key, an incarnation of a myth, mechanized time measured by wheels and clicks, all those futile gifts, butterflies and vases, brokwn bowls, the fragments of lost promises, polished stones, depictions of Jesus, the embossed heads of saints, sheets of paper with evidence of math, all those broken feathers where the birds fell from the sky mark the beginning of something. But there are no beginnings, only discoveries, the veil of the temple rent, The man behind the curtain is God. The image is the porthole and the portal. The bone, the skull, the weathered limb. You. Him. I was trying hard to pay attention, and to be ready, for you both.
o O o