On a velvet table slow billiard balls – click. Clues pile up about a man we know who is losing himself – entropy all round. Downstream, in rubber boots we follow these creeks, take paths that used to clearly cross the certainties we hold. We’ve heard his unshaven ideas, seen his stained shirts mad scribbles, the clusters of fallen hair. He evades us like a gusty wind sweeping leaves from the steps of his home. The wet newspapers, house foundations crooked. His kitchen counter covered with old meals: dishes stinking, cutlery plastic disposability. No turning away. Sometimes, we feel his ghost in tight orbit around our fears. With chins upturned, we watch Banquo above the banquet. He challenges us, his sisters and hopeless brothers, blames us for his death – while he lives. The present, an unfunny joke – while the past he knows is a rich tapestry of pleasure, like a mouthful of fruitcake. Erect within himself his wisdom hidden, his sins locked up where they can do no harm. We search the larger and longer spaces, our hands comb the air, then fall to our own responsibilities. He is the silver bauble we let slip from the broken necklace of our family. Only at night, do we hear his dream-like rage – the hollering of a lost hunter, echoes of his former life.
Temporal Loss
