Experience of the locally inconsequential day
Contracts and dilates. The rubbery awareness
Of passing events would be so much more
Delightful, think the thoughts, if the experience
Were under thoughts’ control. The swift hours,
The slow half-seconds, who would not prefer
To orchestrate them to taste? Let these blur.
Let these extend into glassy detail. But no,
The busier and the distracted pass quickly,
The peaceful slow towards boredom, and then,
Most unfortunately, they reverse their roles
In memory, the eventful passages remembered,
The peaceful vanishing under the waves of days.
And while the imagination taxes itself with these
Fantasies of directing the phenomenology
Of experienced time, what passes is another
Day in which minor good and bad all mix together,
With more or less added to give the particular
Flavor, and while little of it seems surprising
In retrospect, almost nothing was exactly
Expected. The wonderful details, the faeries
Of the real, continued to swim into the light
And sink away again. Imagination, that oaf,
Continued to fold in on itself and its memory,
An inwardness forever taking the smear
Of what passed and blurring it further, trying
To make a world more vivid than the world,
That primal addiction that fails and fails and fails
But can’t ever prevent itself from trying again.
The very term, event, derives from the Latin
Evenire, meaning, "to come out, to happen.'
Imagine all the dystopias you can imagine.
Imagination all the utopias you can imagine.
You won’t imagine what actually happens.
Heaven and hell themselves can’t fashion
One thread of the fabric of what passes, passing.
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