Kindle Notes & Highlights
I lean and watch the water, listening to water Till my eyes forget me
Something else is going on in the river More vital than death – death here seems a superficiality
The river goes on Sliding through its place, undergoing itself
And the river Silences everything in a leaf-mouldering hush
And the river Is a gutter of death, A spill of glitters dangling from her grasp As she flies Through the shatter of space and Out of being.
a self reflected, a spectre.
The river is trying To rise out of the river.
The river cries out once, tosses her hair, hides her eyes, Bleeding him empty remorselessly.
The tale of a dying river
No map or Latin ever Netted one deity from this river.
And in my eye That felt blind somehow to what I stared at As if it stared at me.
my fear of one inside me, A bodiless twin, some doppelgänger Disinherited other, unliving,
But there was the eye! I peered into that lens Seeking what I had come for. (What had I come for? The camera-flash? The burned-out, ogling bulb?)
So the river is a god Knee-deep among reeds, watching men, Or hung by the heels down the door of a dam It is a god, and inviolable. Immortal. And will wash itself of all deaths.
The earth is coming quietly and darkly up from a great depth, Still under the surface. I am unknown,
The Mayfly is Frail The way the shivering Northern Lights are frail.
It’s an ancient thirst Savouring all this, at the day’s end, Soaking it all up, through every membrane, As if the whole body were a craving mouth, As if a hunted ghost were drinking –
Where does the river come from?
Everything is on its Way to the River
All things draw to the river. Under them all The river, itself and unalterable.
What a death-in-life – to be his own spectre!
