Vue sur la mer

What is original then if everything
that has happened to us has happened

to someone else before? Every great love
the same love but also the only one,

every death the same death that couldn’t
have brought the universe to a halt but did,

that couldn’t have made you speechless, heart
stopped in its tracks, every nerve burning

its uncurtained filaments in a lighthouse
at the end of the pier— Rich green, slippery

with moss: whose names are these, carved
into planks and on the faces of stones?


In response to Via Negativa: Palimpsest.

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