7.27.00

Outside the open doorway a storm is blowing in through a wind chime high and away and among the summer-laden trees. It's dark out there. In here the reflection of the color of the light of a single bulb makes a sensual stillness. I've painted a mural inside myself; painted myself into a room I can't back out of without destroying the creation. I am alone, trapped by the vision, and singled out by the bulb; the only movement comes from the darkness. Don't all the poets say that we imprison ourselves? This wall bears the beauty of my own creativity and the view of all else is obstructed. Daresay, I am blind. Impaired fully the keenness by which a whole person thrives. Rilke wrote: For beauty is nothing / but the beginning of terror, which we can just barely endure, / and we stand in awe of it as it coolly disdains to destroy us. And so, in terror, hearkening toward a melee of storm beyond the rim of sight, I think of how I might cut the muse free and let it sail high and away on winds through the night.

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