one art

“so many things seemed filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”

Oh Elizabeth Bishop, song of my heart. When these things go there is no disaster, but a quiet void none-the-less, a brief moment that the universe stops and ponders. We let things go quietly and unequivocally at times, when needed. I’ve needed to implore the no disaster rule and it is so odd how things can leave no wake when they leave, no churning over of emotions, just a pause, a nanosecond of desolation like the flicker when a light bulb goes out and then the replacing begins.

It is the replacing that can be disastrous, that I am having trouble with. And I own it all up to eyes. I don’t care how trite or cliché or nonsensical it can seem, the eyes, when stared at for long periods of time or even those little nanoseconds can tell you eons of things, lifetimes and worlds can pass through them. I’ve looked for those eyes all my life, dreamed about them. And now, I’m trying to replace them, their loss has been a disaster though I never truly owned them. And what can I do when the eyes that stare back at me now tell me nothing, no lifetimes, no history lessons? Was I imaging it? Was I just practicing my art, my own art of losing?

“I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.”

Oh Elizabeth Bishop, song of my heart.