Herculean

So many things have happened that no one knows about.
They didn’t make the news. They left no artifacts.
They didn’t live to tell the tale, or were considered unremarkable
at the time.

The exhibitionist on the bridge,
The other robbery,
The haunting melody,
The courageous village
and the father of three—

All buried under nothingness,
swallowed by forgetfulness,
Nobody’s cautionary tale. Nobody’s allegory.

But if I’m quiet for a minute -—
If I open my hands, and listen,
My heart flashes.

Like recalling where the exit was, having passed it just a moment ago;
Like looking down at a hurricane, gazing into its white funnel,
I am reading the Chronicle,
Singing with Troubadours,
Reported and reporting on the Network News.

Everything is everything and I don’t wish to smooth it,
Only to infuse it
With the knowledge of its own unpublished grace—
The memory of the gift it gave itself.

June 2007

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