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Sunday, August 25, 2013


Knut Ekwall (1843-1912)


He didn’t look at all as he imagined
Himself to look.  When he came
Upon himself reflected his view
Was always, seemingly, oblique.

Obscured at times by serious
Happenstance, flocks of birds,
The whipping of lianas or palm
Fronds against the windows
As the light from the oil lamp
Bounced the reflections off
The glass,  it was not likely
That he would be in any
Space where a proper mirror
Might be found that wasn’t smoked
Or distressed by having the lovely
Mercury scraped from its back,
Making him look tearful or
Extremely lonely as an old 
Waltz might be lonely,

The music unable to bear the weight
Clarity would require and become
Indeterminate, a misfortune.

He became a hostage to his ideas
That everything he saw was
Infected in this way and
The only places comfort could
Be found were  either blasted
Clear of living things or so totally
Overgrown that passage through
To pure sunlight was also seemingly
Impossible  He betrayed himself

To a distant idea that could
convey little, stripped of any
Possessions of perception
He himself might have beyond shadows,
Wings unable to fully open,
A disguise that passed
For recognition with no
Feeling except in irritating memory.

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