Frank Corcoran

You don´t know whence ? Whither? Nor I. Nor why? Sob not my song, Hiawatha, but sigh for slight hope, a sliver of light from behind the glass mirror, hearing ear-hairlets and timpanum agog, straining for Good News. A sliver !
Doubt or sift through many different objective correlatives , but I seem to return again to my “I” amd its lissom, inverted commas. I am all of my habits and willed fantasies and censored intimations of a kind of immortality. I and “I”, my walled-in subject/object. “I” only exist because I think of, will be thinking of me. Think or be thought of. Some drizzly wet day I will not be. Some dry night “I” will begin never again existing. Light is letting down a photon at a time. Light is the burden of nothing, lightens everything; who´s paying the light-bill anyway?