On Creeley’s Path

That memory is the cave one finally lives in
That lying face up we watch the ceiling
That we see ourselves different sizes, moving,
still
That we run forwards although we remember
backwards
That the cave has secrets, veins, impersonal
roughness
That in its small dark space one can travel
That you can go nowhere and have been there
That the cave was made by a Greek host lacking natural light
That he built it mortgaging his knowledge of doors and
windows
That he was trying to test our attraction to the sun’s
minute hand
That it was useless to sketch out the exit within the idea of
enclosure
That outside there is always a white wall delineating
the fi rst version of experience
That some shadows subsist they come from afar and bring
news
That memory lasts longer if you distract yourself from
memory
That mine begins with a swimming pool dislocated among
trees
That water passed through my ear without withdrawing its last
bubble
That I breathed unwilling the sensation of blue and saw the sky
divided an instant like a number
That I guessed the answer there is no upwards from water or
firmament
where perfection interweaves with the feigned error of
my self as much yours as mine
That the cave postulates its own cave restores the
alternative of the undubbed elements
That in water memory is fleeting it dissolves
with the body’s every routine
That today the shadow’s news lacks articles is not
understood
That the world is not the same everywhere over there they shout
over here they hide gauge fear with chalk in my
head distribute it in long threads where it is hanged
That the caves are different long at times narrow
memory hardly fits
That they adjust even to their own nonexistence
That I recall myself in someone who is not me lying down in
my cave
That I demand of her don’t put me into this story don’t
calculate
entrances for exits something so banal I remain
inside with the ceiling above me
That to elude you I propose more caves while
I remember
That memory is my favorite trick to lose myself
That the paradox of the black stone glossy stone will be
another memory
That only the end has no beginning nothing external
the day
the trees the speculative pool your reflection
foreshortened
That metaphor is infinite: cave or cavern or grotto
stand in my place: you begin where I end.

Translated to English by Wendy Burk

Posted: April 17, 2012 at 9:01 pm