Falling Out of Time (10 page)

WOMAN ATOP THE BELFRY:

And he,

he also

touches you

from there,

and his touch—

WALKING MAN:

No one

has ever touched me

in that way?

WOMAN IN NET:

Two human specks

a mother

and

her child—

WALKING MAN:

What more must I do? My legs

can hardly carry me, my life thread

becomes thinner, a moment more

and I’ll be gone. And you were right,

my wife, righter than me—

there is no
there
, there is

no
there
,

and even if I walk

for all of time

I will not get there, not

alive. So many days

have passed

since I left home,

and all in vain, no purpose, but

the passion still remains inside me

like a curse,

walk onward,

walk—

WOMAN ATOP THE BELFRY:

How miserable to be

so right,

while you were wiser

and far bolder.

Get up,

go and be

like him as much as

one alive can be

like the dead—without dying.

Conceive him,

yet be your death, too,

almost.

Like him

be now, but only till

the shadow of his end

falls

on the shadow

of your being.

And there, my love,

among the shadows,

in the netherworld

of father-son,

there will come

peace—for him,

for you.

DUKE:

Listen to her, sir

(my subject,

though subjected now

to no one), listen:

faithful are the wounds

of she who loves. Do it, and if not—

then you have sealed my fate,

our fate,

and we are nothing—

all of us who walk—

but a ripple over death,

a feeble sign, unreadable,

in the dense rock, from which

a wise but uncourageous sculptor

carved the merest hint of us, courageous

but not genius, or genius but surely

not merciful.

Go,

upend time,

conceive him and then die

with him, and be reborn

out of his death.

WALKING MAN:

Only the passion remains

in me, like a curse,

a disease—

walk, walk more, and

more.

Perhaps at some last border

where my wisdom cannot reach,

I will set down

this heavy load and then

take one small step backward,

no more, one pace

across the world,

a concession,

a confession:

I am here,

he is

there,

and a timeless border

stands between us.

Thus to stand,

and then, slowly,

to know,

to fill with knowledge

as a wound fills up

with blood:

this is

to be

man.

WALKERS:

And at that moment
,

with those words
,

the world grew

dark: a shadow

struck us all
.

A wall
.

A wall stood in our way. A massive

wall of rock bisected
,

cut the world

right through
.

A wall. It wasn’t here before
,

it simply wasn’t!

A thousand times we’ve circled

round the town
,

up and down these hills

until we know each stone and crevice, and

suddenly—a wall
.

Perhaps we did not notice?

Perhaps we passed it

in our sleep? It was not here
,

it wasn’t! Then how? Then what?

From the sky? Or sprouted

from the ground?

Now it’s here, it’s here
,

and maybe—

Could it be? Possible? But no
,

my friends, no, science won’t allow

such an assumption! But perhaps

our longings will? Perhaps

despair allows it?

Coldness

suddenly spreads

through our limbs. A cool shadow

cast upon us, slashing our world

like an ax
,

like then, yes
,

like the moment

of disaster—

And he
,

the one
,

the walking one
,

the lonely
,

nears the wall
.

One step and then another. Fearful
,

feet defeated, walking yet recoiling
,

a grasshopper

beside it
.

WALKERS:

And he, facing the wall
,

head cocked, listening
,

awaits an answer. Where
,

where will he go, where will we go:

along the wall? Or just stand here

and wait?

For whom? For what?

And for how long?

And as it always is with him, we know
,

the feet. A tremble rises

from the shins, the body

tenses, head slowly lifts up

and straightens, and he walks. He walks
.

It’s good. This way is good. And everything

comes back to life along with him, one foot

lifts up, then steps back down, a step

and one more step
,

one more, he walks
,

walks and steps, steps

and strikes, he walks

in place—

in place? Yes, treading

in one place, a step
,

another, one more step
,

his eyes upon the wall, walking

without walking, walking
,

dreaming, walking

with himself, from himself

to himself—

WALKING MAN:

Here I will fall

now I will fall—

I do not fall.

Now, here,

the heart will stop—

it does not stop—

TOWN CHRONICLER:

Here is shadow

and fog,

frost

rising

from a dark pit.

Now,

now I will fall—

WALKERS:

He does

not fall

and does not

fail, he walks, before the wall

he walks, a step
,

another, one more step
,

an hour goes by, another hour, sun sets

sun rises, weakened limbs. The shadows

of our bodies swallowed up

into the darkness as we walk
,

we all walk

there—

And sometimes it does seem

that there is something moving in the wall
.

It breathes. We do not say

a word. More than anything

we fear

the hope. Of what awaits beyond the wall

we do not dare to think. At dawn
,

and twilight, too, our bodies elongate
,

we grow into extremely slender

giants, silhouettes. And sometimes

deep inside there floats a golden speck
,

fading from one, skipping to the other
,

and this we do not speak of either. We walk in gloom
.

Across the way, on gnarled rock
,

a spider spins a web, spreads out his taut
,

clear net. Then he creates a recess

and he burrows deep inside it—

Our faces

are sealed, our feet

strike, hit the earth
,

the earth is also a wall
.

The sky above as well, perhaps
.

Walk, walk more, constantly

walk so as not to be crushed

between the walls. One step
,

another, another step, our bleary eyes

see only humps of rocky stone
,

scabs of brown and gray, and

a thin spiderweb waving

in the breeze—

Sunset pours its light upon the wall
.

It almost draws attention for a moment. That light

of golden-red. Warm, appeasing

light. Since the day my daughter drowned, I gather up

each moment of beauty and grace, for her
.

And I
,

my friends
,

ever since
,

have looked

at things of beauty twice
.

Oh, m’lord, I swear
,

I’m just like you, except that

I don’t have the words you have

from education.
But Lady of the Nets
,

you move me so each time

you speak of your son. Well, m’lord
,

that’s because poems suddenly

tumble out my mouth. It is the same

with me, my lady:
poetry

is the language

of my grief
.

Look—

there—

one green leaf
.

Wondrous how it managed to sprout

here and survive in the naked
,

arid rock. A fly lands on the leaf
,

cleans its body
,

scrubs and polishes

translucent wings—

We walk, alert, watching

the fly like a riddle—

vibrant, full of life, of lust;

it hovers and then

lands again, playful
,

it should be more careful near the web
.

But no—

the fool has touched the spiderweb
,

brushed it with its wing
,

now lost
.

Disaster here, we know, instantly

now, disaster, its cold fingers

on our lips
.

We walk fast, we walk

hard, threads bind
.

The fly struggles, tries to take flight
,

buzzes so loudly the sky might tear
,

and its mouth opens wide:

What are you trying to say?

And what is it you know now
,

that you did not know

when you were spawned?

A day or two later

at dusk, half asleep
,

we notice that our stride

has changed. We walk, we step

so quickly, our skin bristles, what is it?

The earth, it seems, is softer?

Opening up to furrows

and dimples? Our feet understand

before we do, as they strike the earth
,

deepening, dust rises
,

backs straighten, eyes glimmer—

Each of us kneels down

upon the earth, digs into it with

hands and feet, with nails. Digs

quickly, like an animal
,

and it trembles at our touch. Our hands

suddenly light, supple, fingers knead
,

whole bodies dig in dirt and dust
.

TOWN CHRONICLER:

My wife,

she, too.

Her lovely shoulders

moved, hovered.

An agile shape

danced in her

sorrow-heavy body,

slipped away, like moth

from dusty lamp …

She stopped. Wiped her forehead

with her hand.

I took my life

in my hands and smiled.

She smiled back! Up and down

I wiggled both my brows.

She smiled some more!

I went back to digging.

WALKERS:

The earth arches, curves itself

toward us, as if having waited

for a long time to be dug
,

dug like this, for people such as us

to dig through it—we have a use now
.

We sense how much it wanted

to be wallowed in, rejoiced in, laughed into—

tears and blood and sweat

are all we’ve piled into it always. When—

tell me—when has

someone laughed

into the earth?

The shadow

of the wall grows

longer over us, its blackness sharp

and cool. Teeth of iron

plow us with their umbra
.

Vigorously, we fall

into earth’s lap, turn over

in her, inhale her warmth

and breath, and she—the mother

of all life, and so the mother

of all dead, she is bereaved-in-life
,

warm and fluttering in our hands
,

as though begging us to go on
,

to dredge up from her womb

the sweet desires of youth entombed

in her, the sweetness

of childhood which, in her
,

has turned

into dust
.