Introduction to Notes Toward an Ontological Fiction
to the Henri Church
and the irreverent Patethakis
And for what, except myself, do I feel love?
Lust for every book, book upon book stacked up
hoping with each to unhide me.
An absolute light, not wrong, not correct,
outside of any cave, the self unbound,
unshackled from every fret and fetter.
I can imagine my eyes blinking, squinting,
adjusting to the brilliance,
marveling at the objects bathing in it
like nymphs in a silver lake,
and then, my gaze not directed but drawn
staring straight into . . .
At that moment, would I realize
that the shadowy tropes
that turned their undulous turns,
stepping in Time
on the hard irregular surface of the wall
were indeed the swords that cut me free
from the Gordian knot
of ideas?
Would I at last know them
as the only true expressions of the truth?