Child, do you see anywhere that I could sit,
either on the common ground or in the groves
belonging to the god?*
For your eyes’ glint, green is not of land, but of
Anselm’s famous assumption that greatness
resides in existence—like salt water in the sea, say,
or fantasy’s strange struggle with what is,
after all, simply a child at the edge of the ocean.
Idle eyes can be like a crown
you wear to mock the idylls of a king.
They can be a story of a wedded existence—
its laurels, its pride—here on this island, where we
can be as a bride saying her nuptial vows.
Or they can reveal only the darkest of shadows,
that which there is none greater than, more like
a crowded movie theatre than an empty cave
and when its monuments are an illusion…
why, we should not be able to see at all.
That which there is none greater than—
like the breaking crests of the waves forever,
some from the setting sun, some from his rising,
and some from the place of his midday beams,
and some from the northern mountains of night…*
…must necessarily exist. And so
the swell of water becomes a rising of the evening air.
Poetry resides in its existence.
My name is Anselm.
Child, please find me my chair.
* Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus