Saturday, July 17, 2004

Monologist's Lament

How did he go over? No one laughed

when he was wittiest, or loved him when

he was a saint. No reason not, on that account, to look

for funninesses and

forgivabilities in things. The mini-series

miseries, the comedies of men

the loves harpooned, the songs unsung,

the anima in animus, the child

that, in his wisdom, Rover bit.

A world's a work. The winding

winded kind of wit

a hill wept into shape, with ha-has

stitching down the sides, tricked out in ribs

and sob-stabs. How does anyone

get over it?

Heather McHugh