Old cathedrals, old markets, good and firm things And old streets, one always feels intercepted As they walk quickly past, no nonsense, cabbages And turnips, the way they get put into songs: One needn't feel offended Or shut out just because the slow purpose Under it is evident, Because someone is simply there. Yet it's a relief to look up To the moist, imprecise sky, Thrashing about in loneliness, Inconsolable... There has to be a heart to this. The words are there already. Just because the river looks like it's flowing backwards Doesn't mean that motion doesn't mean something, That it's incorrect as a metaphor. And the way stones sink, So gracefully, Doesn't rob them of the dignity Of their cantankerous gravity. They are what they are and what they seem. Maybe our not getting closer to them Puts some kind of shine on us We didn't consent to, As though we were someone's car: Large, animated, calm. |
© 1987 John Ashbery