Rumor of Cortez

As the waiter refills the catsup,

33 As the waiter refills the catsup, we want to know more about, of all things, all things. Well, hell. Forgive us, for we know not what we ask. Look, I’m still holding on to my spoon, and on to hunger, you say, consoling, I say, I’d turn on myself if a story could explain the heart’s version of the facts, and face it, love is almost love enough— that’s how it is and damn the sky, all of it, damn the half-bitten moon and damn its dim-witted light, damn the promises and the incompetence of stars and damn that riders snap to attention where the bay curves against its will and the lights with it— But love is not the point. In particular, that thing happened again in your eyes, though you said no, then yes. How often have we seen this? as the waiter sizes up the condiments, sweeps to the floor our shared crumbs and sets down those heavy white cups, each one with a telling thwunk—half-and-half? I do not mean to say that everything is lost—far from it—and anyway, we can dance, and should, and do, right there in the diner, past the bus stand and the tired cook and the traveler who cannot read his map. ...