Thursday, March 5, 2009

A Sky for Husserl


This sunset can't be seen by you,
The green sky and its liquid nebulae.
These cacti are not recognizable
To even the most discerning eye.
I try but can't describe
What I myself can't see,
Though it seems to pull me in
To my hidden mind,
The one that's alien,
Unreachable in thought,
At the perfection of the end
Where there is no further purpose or task ahead
And meaning stands revealed as merely flesh,
A carcass we consumed that soon is lost,
As we whose God is death will soon be too.

I touch the spines with only nomenclature,
To calculate how purple comes from green,
To make up for what can't be touched or seen,
This moment and this place,
The only one that is,
That floats away like it existed somehow,
As pieces of the sky,
As beauty that survives my prisoned mind,
That knows exactly what the sky implies
But cannot say a word
Even to itself...

The merest spark
Would turn the heavens