The eras of error enter like breath
And retreat, not wholly themselves any more
But some lost spiritual thing, that glows
In the present like a crystal display
Holding all the light of the present sun.
It is not what it was, nor what we want
It to be, but something caught in between,
Like what is understood among two people,
The past that has not yet been absorbed and
The future that has not yet been conjured,
The only sounds that the present hears now,
They echo like the barterings of crows,
What we long to hold of what has long since
Slipped away, like words of dictionaries
That have taken their meanings away with them.
It is a hope, for a feeling, of a
Thought of the sublime. Some ember stirs there
Brightening our eyes, accustomed to dark,
So we can recognize ourselves in its
Dim light, the blue that remains for the blue.
But is there more? Of what is that old glow
Composed? And why was it chosen to lead us
Forward? The doors are opening to
Paneled woodies, Lucky Strikes signs, Nehi
Handbills, Mao jackets, quadraphonic LPs,
And the soundtracks and moviescapes that went with,
Mementos that are left of what has lived,
As if the fantasy that outlived them
Still has more victims to claim, the hyper-hip
Still longing for what has never to come,
Like a koan that never will be understood
No matter how long someone stands before it
Because it refuses to accept its form.
It whistles in the air as something else
Yet to be discovered, but safely gone,
Commensurate with the eyes that want it.
