What plain desire doesn't give you
You will have to find in uncertainty.
And that should be enough
To at least give you a start
Today. Pluck at curtains,
Wash dishes, send for something
You've seen advertised on television.
Fix a specific point for your loss,
That, in your grasping,
Is revealed to be an object,
Something patient on your night
Table that only mildly suggests
How it could go beyond itself
In your morning vagueness
And afternoon fatigue. If
You know a priest, watch
His hands as he blesses.
Slender hands are they? Caressing
A loss? Or only the air? Sexual,
Military? Or is there really
Something that is only religion?
These questions, and others,
Standby, but I guess we've
Got time. Pluck at the
Curtains, look down at the street,
There it is, maybe. Or not.
Your neighbor's found something
Buried in his yard but
Won't tell you what it is. It
Seems our lives revolve
Around such things: alarm
Clocks, priest's hands, an
Old man frantically digging
Next to the fence. Or maybe
They revolve, too? Back to
Uncertainty, and its companion,
Liam Moore, a poet and fiction writer, was born in Salt Lake City in 1966. He lived from 1989 to 2000 in Italy and Spain, where among other activities he was a film translator. He disappeared into the American West in December 2000 and emerged in New York City in the fall of 2002 to pursue Ph.D. studies in Medieval History at Columbia University.
Opinions expressed in Terra Incognita are not necessarily shared by all or any of the editors.
La revista no comparte necesariamente las opiniones de los colaboradores.