Issue 92, Summer 1984
evening is falling. Not because of the years,
which are numerous, but because the play
bored the actors more than the audience.
I haven't ventured into the forest
or consulted Saint Bonaventure like C.
May God preserve her.
It doesn't take long to learn that the years
are the twinkling of an eye and the past
is already the future. And the trouble is
the incomprehensible is the only reason that sustains us.
If it becomes clear the First Causes
already contained the explosion of the ridiculous
then we'll have to look elsewhere though without success
since the future already passed some time ago.
It seems assured that life was born
from a raging incompatibility
of vapors and gases and this comforts us
because the human brain comes out unscathed.
The infinite, the sublime and other heights,
even if they're our burden don't burden us
with a well-founded pride. Non possumus,
but we come off blameless.
The blame comes later and it's incontestable.
It's the sin of pride that ought to be
pardoned, if a judge
were available,' which is denied on several sides.
And what if it were otherwise?