The Philosophy Lecture
“Let me speak of time, then,
of the motionless projection which is time,”
he coughed.
Or the birds running, I thought
through that November evening, the park
and the winged eyes I remember.
“The circle of the clock circles boundless space,”
he said. But mute, mute I thought
beside the voiceless birds flying
like cries between the delicate limbs
of the trembling white trees I remember.
O dark dark.
“And we are enfolded in time,” he said.
Among the pages of the dead I thought;
the day ends when the play ends,
and the fire goes under.