Gerald Solomon
USA
That crazy storm we had last week broke roofs, broke our tree,
took two young boys out to sea. Now needing to be sensible,
some say all kinds of help are free.
Thinking. Divining divinity.
Could we have got it more wrong? Invention, mother of necessity.
Truth, Houdini of meaning, questionable, if not answerable…
Our Italian fresco last summer:
a lion limps in Sinai to the hermit’s cell. The saint at work― you saw his ink-pot. His Latin crib speaks once and for all… (Echos from rocks, visions from the sands).
Another, dusty and in sweat of battle, wanders off to lean on a borrowed spear, take his fix on the true, the sufficient. (Ideas ride high as the noonday star
in full career o’er Parthenon and myth.)
So much for that. Escape to the present (present breeding true, knocked up by the past).
Wouldn’t you agree that beyond reason and trust, for us left on the beach it would be best
not needing the universe to be good?