Wordsworth

--Cole Swenses

 

William in his happiness      without a cloud      owed it all

and from it came      a life of living      William said

to these unbeautiful legs     I owe the fact      that I am lost

and though have walked      almost 200,000 miles      I owe

my life      and will gladly pay its weight in cloud.      For whom

there was no difference      to walk      simply was to write and

 

vice-versa.      Rhythm as a mode of sight      in walking saw

with faceted eye and the colors all on the inside—for instance

he opened his hand      and there in the palm      the road

walked alone and someone fell into step as he glided off once

again there is no him

 

before a strong wind      the colors deepen      the greens sinking

even diving      and the farther he walked      the deeper it went

seven miles      just to get the mail       and another fifteen to meet

a friend for tea.

 

And the writing itself must be a figuration of the walk itself, which

should wander unruling the paper and thus all the inventions that

order the world—the classification of the plants and animals—all this

in William’s hand      written in a crossed letter as one would

shadow a favorite acre as he walked      up and down the path

in his garden, calling it a journey left behind.