As If the Trees By Their Very Roots Had Hold of Us

Strange to remember a visit, really not so Long ago, which now seems, finally, past. Always, it’s a Kind of obvious thing I guess, amazed by that Cycle: that first you anticipate a thing & it seems Far off, the distance has a weight you can feel Hanging on you, & then it’s there – that Point – whatever – which, now, while It’s happening seems to be constantly slipping away, “Like the sand through your fingers in an old movie,” until You can only look back on it, & yet you’re still there, staring At your thoughts in the window of the fire you find yourself before. We’ve gone over this a thousand times: & here again, combing that Same section of beach or inseam for that – I’m no Longer sure when or exactly where – “& yet” the peering, Unrewarding as it is, in terms of tangible results, Seems so necessary. Hope, which is, after all, no more than a splint of thought Projected outwards, “looking to catch” somewhere – What can I say here? – that the ease or Difficulty of such memories doesn’t preclude “That harsher necessity” of going on always in A new place, under different circumstances: & yet we don’t seem to have changed, it’s As if these years that have gone by are All a matter of record, “but if the real Facts were known” we were still reeling from What seems to have just happened, but which, “By the accountant’s keeping” occurred years. Ago. Years ago. It hardly seems possible, So little, really, has happened. We shore ourselves hour by hour In anticipation that soon there will be Nothing to do. “Pack a sandwich & let’s eat later.” And of course, The anticipation is quite appropriate, accounting, For the most part, for whatever activity We do manage. Eternally buzzing over the time, Unable to live in it… “Maybe if we go upaways we can get a better View.” But, of course, in that sense, views don’t Improve. “In the present moment” (if we could only see It, which is to say, to begin with, stop looking with Such anticipation) what is enfolding before us puts to Rest any necessity for “progression”. So, more of these tracings, as if by some magic Of the phonetic properties of these squiggles… Or Does that only mystify the “power” of “presence" which Is, as well, a sort of postponement.