Saturday, June 05, 2010



The view through this first-morning
window is something right out of Flaubert--intersecting arcs
and rectangles presently reflect the morning light as it scrambles
across the city's rivers and bridges. The light converges; remote
eaves hold the remnants of night, its cool shadows. Glass, brick,
metal, wood and sky--essaying deliberate flats-and-narrows against
columnar towers, window upon window upon window--black fractals,
smooth onyx set in elemental relief, time-buffeted and rubbed, sands
of industry and invention--durable utility, yet light shows forth from
every intersecting line, eternity runs along all-diverse trajectories,
trajectories that circle back, fall one into the other, endless
repetition, immutable processes of variation--

This synchronicity, my friend, welcomes me in my New York City
hospital bed, the morning after surgery, convalescing as I think on
Flaubert, knitting back together while ruminating on Mallarmé,
and looking out the window.

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