A Lightning That Never Retracts

 
I know the way I have always known. Living in cities riddled with people, estranged, bewildered. Holding what will never be spoken. Working a language. Never allowing my whole self to be in one place at the same time. Some part of my mind always buried in books, or buried deep with in itself listening to its own silent commands.
This time is no different than any other. I am never completely here. I am in Paterson struggling with Williams, I am walking the Atlantic shore, I am driving toward revelations that will strike like a lightning that never retracts.
The way I have always known the sadness of these places. All the missed connections too dull to incise. The eyes of faces that seem to collapse inward on the gravity of a thought. No one ever sure of what they are doing or why. I am sure of so little. So little to be sure.
I am not a part of these people, I am made of books and gifts of other men. The books have given me shape and structure and texture. I do not want anything. There is nothing worth having that I cannot give myself. Outside of words and a promise to go on living, my attentions scattered through the thoughts of the dead who thought enough to leave their words behind. That is enough for me for now. It has always been enough.