The weather map today is pale. The lines on the map are like the casts of fishing lines looping and curved briefly across air. The sky now, also, toward evening, is pale. On Sunday, in Beacon, there were lines drawn on walls and also lines drawn across the canvases of the last paintings of Agnes Martin. One of
The Translator's Dilemma
To foretell an ordinary mission, with fewer words.
With fewer, more ordinary, words.
Words of one syllable, for example.
For example: step and sleeve.
These are two favorites, among many.
Many can be found if I look closely.
But even if I look closely, surely a word is not
necessarily here, in the foreground.
I see an edge of a paper, I see orange.
I see words and I see things. An old story,
nothing to foretell the ordinary mission.
I see “her winter” and I see
And even the Romans fear her by now.
Are these words in
translation or barriers to translation?
I see John and an open book, open to a day
in August. I am feeling defeated
among these sights, as if I will never find
either sleeve or step. These ordinary
pleasurable words, attached to
ordinary pleasurable things, as if
to find them is to say I am
announcing criteria. Step, sleeve,
you are invited to come up and be within
ordinary necessities. Staircase. Coat.