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Where it gets done
It gets done through side entrances, lost hallways, in the interstices, unscheduled, after hours, after the priests, the monks, the Brahmins, the virgins, the beadles with Elvis have left the great building, gone home, and the stained glass & painted walls are at their best, unspoiled by dogmatics & petitions, when everything is forgotten or mislaid but the original gesture, the first fiery sermon, when all the scribbling, layer after layer, with or without apology, has fallen away, the thickly opaque palimpsest melted away to leave only a simple or wordless text, when all the cumulative after-impulses have gone, leaving only the first, and the sharp, high lines of the great building are left exposed, like a reef.
It gets done there, without confirmation or witness.
It gets done there.
Or it doesn’t get done at all.
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06-13-2005, 08:51 AM
