Much younger, first acquainted
With certainty, it tasted as crisp
And tart as a green apple,
But its edges became precise,
Interlocking gears, a vast machine.
I governed impeccable itineraries,
I tallied every petty minutia,
Mortgages, insurance, taxes,
Attempting to grasp water,
Exceedingly specific molecules.
Now, I have this urge
To blur all edges,
Debussy rather than Mozart,
Monet rather than Ingres,
The haze, the ubiquitous haze:
A simmering August morning,
Heat steaming off the dew,
When the rasping din
Of cicadas muddles the head
In mesmerizing rhythm;
When the fog is dense,
Oceans and sky mingling
At the wet lips of horizon,
Vaporous words washing upon
A shore, a diffuse La Mer;
Like the estuary of young lovers
Who, intoxicated with infatuation,
Can’t drink enough of the other
Or the old couple, fused, no longer
Distinguishing one from the other;
When cataracts obscure
Our vision, our memory mists;
In the attempt to recall,
Thought is increasingly elusive —
Which truths remain unequivocal?
That moment at dusk,
The blending of day and night,
I doze but still hear
The noises of routine, a dog,
A truck, an unhappy baby,
Vague pieces of conversation,
I hover, a magical levitation,
Between consciousness and dream,
At the eradication of hours,
At the blurring of edges.
About David Sapp
