Curious Convolutions
Those curious convolutions of the brain and destiny, fate and history, which make any random event permanent in the passing eye: mail being loaded in a train station in Britain, the studied vocation of the itinerant priest, the wandering monk symbolizing the visitor with a message, still hanging with darkness deep from the past. Fragmentary, but real, those stains on the lips: the wine, cellar red, maple dusk in New England — a place to leave forever on a ship, to put to sea and stay away.
As yet I have no children, no wife, no second family of my own, but my father, mother, brothers and sisters, and godmother.
Lisping fragrances out of poems, enchanting bosom — warm and soft and secure, forever comforting. But this distance which you face, thrown across. We threw ourselves away. Chocolates and red wine, English muffins with melted butter. Humming, I am not these echoes which reverberate.
This journey which unspoken unravels before you. That face pressed to the glass, seen for an instant only. Those faces pressed to the glass as you flurry by. These are the warm things that cannot be explained.