The Ghent Review Volume1, Number 1, summer 2016 | Page 39

“But surely you…?”
No, no, no – not that I can’t-I can- but I won’t, and see, listen, see the old
thunder rumbles again and nothing is resolved.
Who now will gather the bushels of light? That unto us be born. Also of the
low ones of the world. By which name we might…
The unfinished sentence everywhere low light abounding now just above the
trees.
O abundance of leafage, Greekness of perfusion that might be instructed
unto the many. For the sake of which their questions are indulged if not
always answered. Greek dilemma I have wandered wittingly into – I am
pierced – the young Angus is the old Balder – “but surely you…?”
No, no, no! Even if the garden be despoiled, bright apples that I…
Approvingly. And so to walk these formless paths I shall remake (not a stone
will go unnoticed) Already I am plotting against the dilemmas. O brightness
of this my angelic rebellion!
Sweet day that you are no brevity could be as nice. Good affirmations.
Question the body so as to question the soul. Not every answer is a finality.
Scallop of the pilgrimage city that I carry into the hard intractable day.
Opening that does not always close.
As aforetime is not necessar ily hereafter. The border of the body shifts into
the border of the soul – what border has chaos?
Soul the unformed substance. I have none that is not the body’s delight in
this intractable world.
Word of the world.
Apples to pluck for sustenance where the tree of knowledge is the tree of
exile. Exiled into the world (and after this our exile show unto us…).
Show.