God made me, having nothing more to do, and proved
There was nothing he could not make, if I were a thing he could.
Knowing that much, I had lived my waking life accordingly:
I had tracked down, so far as was possible for me, relations
Between the manifold aspects of my experience. I had
Described my universe as it was becoming, including,
So far as my shame and selfish self-regard allowed,
Its little sordid bits. I had not lied about lying was my proudest lie.
To the extent I had been honest I was ready to die.
In all this, I was accurate. Distressingly. That's why.
No comments:
Post a Comment