|On A Phrase of Milosz's
He is not disinherited,
for he has not found a home
He has found vertiginous life again, the words
on the way to language dangling possibility,
but also, like the sound of a riff on a riff,
it cannot be resolved. History has mucked this up.
He has no textbook, and must overcompensate,
digging into the memory bank if not for the tune
then for something vibratory on the lower end of the harmonics.
He's bound to be off by at least a half-notehere comes jargon
babysomething like a diss or hiss. Being is
incomplete; only the angels know how to fly homeward.
Yet, once the desperate situation is clarified, he feels
a kind of happiness.
Later, the words were displaced and caught fire, burning syllables
to enunciate the dead mother's name.
(Martha sounding then like "mother")
Wasn't it such echoes that built the city in which he lives,
the cage he paces now like Rilke's panther?
He was not disinherited.
He was not displaced
He is sentimental, hence he can say a phrase like his heart burst
The worst thing is to feel only irony can save
The worst thing is to feel only irony.
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