When it comes to creatures, we must be
flawed in much the same way. Or we are
~
entirely alien to each other. Stars are
blotted out of our vision—by the very man-
~
made devices designed to propel us
to that great expansive space
~
of universal oblivion—but they are silent
there expecting to be noticed. Still there is so little
~
that endures, an echo from the E. J. Moeran rhapsody,
“In the Mountain Country,” sings to you
~
from an open window of a building labeled NO
TREASPASSING over the cracked pane of glass,
~
leading you to accept rejection as a component
of beauty, while “Lonely Waters” begins
~
to play. When we lay our thoughts to rest
we forget we even bothered to have
~
them. Where is that love so grand it changes
the whole game? We are just keeping
~
ourselves from it because it doesn’t fit
with these ill formed sensibilities
~
making it. There is little sense to make
of it. Indeed, we are senseless to the sufferings
~
of the songs. Songs whose lyrics can only be heard
in the soul calling out to any beautiful thing
~
to enchant us with wide space in the endless
horizon where the stars spend their time waiting.
disdainfulbeauty 