Streetlights out again I'm walking in the dark lugging groceries up the steps to the porch whose yellow bulb is about to go too, when a single familiar strand intersects my face, the filament slides across my glasses which seem suddenly perfectly clean, fresh, and my whole tired day slows down walking into such a giant thread is a surprise every time, though I never kill them, I carry them outside on plastic lids or open books, they live so plainly and eat the mosquitoes. Distant cousins to the scorpion, mine are pale & small, dark & discreet. More like the one who lived in the corner of the old farm kitchen under the ivy vase and behind the single candle-pot--black with curved crotchety legs. Maya, weaver of illusions, how is it we trust the web, the nest, the roof over our heads, we trust the stars our guardians who gave us our alphabet? We trust the turtle's shell because it, too, says house and how can we read the footprints of birds on shoreline sand, & October twigs that fall to the ground in patterns that match the shell & stars? I feel less and less like a single self, more like a weaver, myself, spelling out formulae from what's given and from words.
For Aaron Sheon
"Tiny hatches, if you make enough of them, make an entire etching move," you told us while we smoked in the lit cave of your Tuesday 1-2:15. We scratched our pens: dance & film posters, flyers to end the war. In our famous jeans we slouched before your podium & slides weaving the movements & the solo trips. "He was lonely." "She had no patron." "Scale extends us & reins us in," you said of the strange Piranesis. "Find the heart of a city by stepping in." My alleys & arcades pressed onto the copperplate of my 20-year-old brain fusing its hemispheres. I hitched to Colmar and found the Isenheim Altarpiece, figures on the old panels aflame, then turned my back on all religions because you'd shown us Goya's firing squad & Daumier's gutters where people looked for water. "Movement in a painting is important as Dante." I've looked for Dante's houses, cafés, notebooks, & horse-stalls, & someone always says Oh, you mean The Poet. "The body doesn't make sense by itself," you said, pointing the red-tip wand at the chalky nudes of Ingres. If I am lonely in any town whose museum treasures its one Whistler or Bonnard, I stand before the image hear your voice; my eyes un-scroll, I lift again like a hinge.