I’m sitting at my desk, drinking hot tea of
. Â Â Â Â chamomile,
. Â Â peppermint,
. Â licorice,
and honey. There’s a book open, in the pool of lamp light. It’s William Carlos Williams’s Collected Poems, at “Asphodel.” Reading it is like descending, step by step, into a deep sorrow, from
. Â root,
. Â Â to leaf,
. Â Â Â to flower,
The one you hope will never open and unfold. The one you hope you will never see blossoming, billowing. Williams writes:
The poem
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â if it reflects the sea
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â reflects only
its dance
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â upon that profound depth
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â where
it seems to triumph.
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â The bomb puts an end
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to all that.
I am reminded
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â that the bomb
. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â also
is a flower