On Distance
I no longer remember when I started
filling up the empty spaces
with words. The difficulty
with endings is never knowing
where the next beginning is.
The words help create some distance;
as though closing gaps burned bridges
in the process. They call it “commencement”,
as if the end and the beginning
were two inseparable things. Ask me,
and I’ll say, yes, the best way to keep moving
is to translate her into words. Ends are difficult
to tie together, especially when they begin
to fray and tangle.
The etymology of etymology is “the study
of the true sense”, etymon. I could write
a thesis on the last chapter and how it came full circle
with the first. To write what you know,
in its truest form, is to wrest meaning
from the opaqueness of shadow.
Truth be told, there is an in-between, a limbo,
a state of being in the middle of sleep and wake. Lethe:
forgetfulness, oblivion. The end
of the journey:
a storm, the waves threatening to capsize,
but the stillness after
will be worse, the time when the damage must be repaired,
masts rebuilt, sails sewn together
to cover the rents.
Alethes is “true”;
aletheia, “unconcealment”. Sometimes, there is nothing left
to do but to let the currents do as they will
— wait as the vessel drifts,
wait for the mist to lift, and finally,
finally,
sight land on the horizon.
