Not a fugitive, not a mole that has burrowed away from the light, into the soil— no wraith in a cave, I’ve chosen to live above ground. What are my truths? Don’t look for platitudes hanging cheap as baubles on any shrub. I’ve had to strike out farther, deeper; carve paths not favorable to the flesh of my hands. What was it for? Only to live a life under the aegis of other terms. No wealth to report, only weary. Neither bluster nor bravura: I still flinch like never before. Perhaps you would have done differently? perhaps you would have obeyed? perhaps you would have thought it unnecessary to keep in sight, that porthole of changing light? Over and over, I’ve tried to outline: so many mouths that murmur in the dark, so many things to disclose. Hands groping little girls’ breasts. Fathers who’ve abandoned their daughters. The real calculus isn’t even configured; and there are also names for these. Who is it you were looking for, again?
In response to cold mountain (54).