Erasures

Epigone

Epigone The idol of the moment is for all time. I love the unresilience of it, inexpressive nudity of seawater painted onto a car's windshield, improvised when there was nothing to know. You may kill the spider, but spare the web. My son feeds at the breast like that. His face grows smaller as his body grows. At his level, the wind has an ant's legs, and there is nothing to know except the anatomies of wind changing, acquiring flesh oh at all levels. I depend upon the idol of the moment as upon the unsustained, saving grace of the night school, the yellow instructors weeping unashamedly when none else is moved at all. I hear the sounds anatomized in the wind's sound, sustained in my son's voice. Faith is improvisation. It marks the sky with a double helix of airplanes, our better humanity, andfills the interstices with a child as the rain falls and the wind stutters away into the shadows at an ant's pace. Everything irreparable deserves worship, least gesture of the wind, music. 8 ...