The Nostalgia of Descartes

He sits by the stove and practices his spectacular meditations.
On the chopping block of reason he surrenders
the fall of rain. By rigorous deduction he arrives at silence.
Having achieved an exalted, early success he doubts
everything. He is encouraged by certain maxims
penned on the wall. When suddenly he wakes full of
longing and regret he does sums in his head, subtracts
toward zero. Like this he forgets the smell of simple
grass, the kitchen of his childhood, he abandons forever
the reveries of the tongue. With much difficulty
he swears off inner thighs, a breath on the neck, he stalls
for a minute on a certain, unforgettable lip. Arriving at
the sense of sight he embraces the suspicion of the blind.
He falls asleep in the shallow abyss of the beginning.
When wind blows through the high windows of his skull
he stands absolutely still. At times he recalls the horizon
without end. Now it is his only memory of the world.