3. Claudel, who rides an anchor and Claudel who dresses in feathers, dear Paul who paints with a pane of glass, and drinks with his fingers: Paul Claudel who dreams of his life sent me a note in yesterday's Mail, the stamp torn off, the customs declaration unreadable, but the weight certain: 50g: night, wings, shingles. Cryptic, but indomitable. The 'human spirit' 'soars'. Whatever that means, whoever the victim, the same ends. Time loves us. The words have tried for order, chirping, squawking, gnawing off the buds on white poplars, sticky in spring, clinging to the soles of our shoes like scarabs. Time loves us. A tiny insect wing carries each of our thoughts into the beams of light.
|The East Village Poetry Web