It isn’t only inaccuracy, nor poetic license
That makes a trust in language dangerous.
A certain atmospheric inaccuracy, in fact,
Is language’s best defense against its own
Weakness, incompleteness. Were words
To itemize precisely only truth and honesty,
Recorded music playing softly in the small
Whorls of a daughter’s dozing ears, lights
Outside the high windows of the little flat
Closed against an early autumn chill
And to mute the sounds of motor traffic,
Nothing much, nothing false, they would be
Still so wholly incomplete as to deceive
Recipient minds quite unintentionally. Only
If they mislead enough to trick those minds,
Just enough, mind you, to cause them
To conjure, each one from its own unique
Store of memories, the atmosphere of this,
Can they complete the circle never true.
No comments:
Post a Comment