Issue 128, Fall 1993
And Also from the Son
qui ex Patre filioque
As you might expect, my momentary vision barely
qualifies: you know, sensation something like the merest
swoon, some uncertainty about why all of a sudden
the back garden, its bamboo and rose, the reaching pecans
(one’s apparent field contracting to a field of vision)
took to trembling, as well as other accompanying
uncanniness. I mean, was the garden trembling or had
it suddenly, unnaturally stopped? Was the appalling
motion something I was seeing or something I was
seeing with? And why am I asking you?
Perhaps I’m not. Probably, the most I’m doing is one
kind of homage to a moment and a form, a rhetoric
disclaiming what the habitual senses can’t make much of.
This is what I’d vouch for: I was at rest in a still,
restfull corner of our back garden. I had expected
even to doze, but instead found my attention fixing
all the more alertly on the narrow scene, and then I
wasn’t seeing anything at all, which is why I’m less
than eager to call this business exactly a vision.
Does one ever sink into a vision?