Sorrow is a home
where each of us may falter. Love darkening the house. Misery remaining
behind the sweep of the curtain. . .as if, with Oedpus, we might hear
in our speech the quiver inside rhyme, the immolation of hope in what
is about to be remembered. Though perhaps inside this current something
new may wake, to offer itself from the other side of the torrents of
Lethe. Not these brackish currents of graphite and lead we have drunk
since birth, and still thirst inside.