Swann's Way

A proust.

He had a habit of retiring casually

To an Adirondack chair among the foothills of Maine

Where he wrote sestinas to debutante lovers

Who never once asked for his name.

 

And while smoking cherry plug and existentialist reefer

From a clay pipe filtered with sin

Exhale, he would, in Claudio fashion; proclaiming

Come gentleman, let the press play sane!

 

You see he’s got a knack for dissociation

From the mechanics that worm.  The parable-

A fly’s eye knows too many dimensions

Anent the human retina claim too many names.

 

Reviews

[freelancejouster]

that last stanza, hell that last line. they ring and reverberate and i feel like if i sit and wait long enough, it'll echo back. i wouldn't mind hearing it again. great.

[Tate Morgan]

I remember a friend in my racing days told me when he smoked his myrsham pipe he would wait for he deer on the top to jump off t tell he had had enough