Monday, April 8, 2013

Backgammon with Wittgenstein

In the time it took
to walk 
from a parked car 
to my building's door,
I don't know
how - but I'm awful sure -
that a 
sort of 
poem occurred.

See, in a snap
I saw 
the virile wind 
whisk quick away the 
overhead fertile 
froth of clouds;
for the very
first time that morning,
that a phenomenal blue
had always been shining
forth without 
my words
to see it through—

but I couldn't imagine 
what claims I'd stake
such a credible 
display of 
ordinary reality
(what, after all,
would Stevens Say? 
What in hell
would Wittgenstein write?)
from here inside my sloppy
office, kinked 
around a desktop;

so I contented myself 
with describing the scene 
and moving on to more
concrete things—

Surely whereof one cannot speak,
one must 
play some videogames.