press

of a lip to a glass with light in its stem,
thick drip down the throat of De Chirico's arche
perched on the rim while rendering them,
the roll of a wheel, pastels on the floor
and godinthegaze of a four year old friend,
an unfinished swim through the eyes of a face
in constellate flight, of emptying self
to the-near-and-the-far-and-the-loud-and-the-soft
of a sfumatoed scent, of chalk on the skin,
how thought thinks its own past,
of a thousand plateaus
and
a
lingering
taste
on
the
tip
of
the
tongue

"I have had to come so far away from it in order to
understand it all."

"Language. What is the writer's struggle except a
struggle to use a medium as precisely as posible,
but knowing fully its basic imprecision? A hopeless
task, but none the less rewarding for being hopeless.
Because the task itself, the act of wrestling with an
insoluable problem, grows the writer up."
(Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet)