Thursday, June 9, 2011

Off-center in a concave return

for a brother, I think

I'm happy that nothing does
repeat us, and almost glad,
that alteration binds us. 
We inquire; this is ours,
this altercation.

     I know that I braid too much my own
     Snapped-off perceptions of things as they come to me.
     They are private and always will be.
     Where then are the private turns of event
     Destined to boom later like golden chimes
     Released over a city from a highest tower?
     The quirky things that happen to me, and I tell you,
     And you instantly know what I mean?
     What remote orchard reached by winding roads
     Hides them? Where are these roots?

John Ashbery
Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror
  The One Thing That Can
  Save America, stanza iii
Viking, 1975©

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