Then the air was perfect. And his descent
by Jon Anderson
to the white earth slowed.
became an ability to rest--as
the released breath
believes in life. Further down it snowed,
a confusion of slow novas
which his shoes touched upon, which seemed
as he fell by
to be rising. From every
small college and rural town:
the clearest, iced blossoms of thought,
Then the housetops
of friends, who
he thought had been speaking of his arrival,
withdrew, each from another.
He saw that his friends
lived in a solitude they had not ever said aloud.
Strangely he thought this good.
The world, in fact,
which in these moments he came toward,
Had he been thinking this all along?
where he belonged, having lived with himself
always, as a secret friend.
A few may have seen him then. In evidence:
the stopped dots
of children & dogs, sudden weave
of a car--
acquaintances, circling up
into the adventure they imagined. They saw him drop
through the line breaks
and preciousness of art
down to the lake
which openly awaited him.
Here the thin
green ice allowed him in.
Some ran, and were late.
forever imagine tragedy
his face floating among the reeds,
unrecognized), as those
who imagine the silence of a guest
to be mysterious, or wrong.