Spring 2002
It's in the striving it inspires.
I knew a man once who,
Replete with himself and
Satisfied with a certain
Knowledge of his nature,
Followed his satisfaction to a mirror
And perursed the intersection
Of lines upon his face.
He knew where each one led:
The gentle wrinkles folded into creases,
Creases softened to the edge of his skin;
No further would his conscience read.
He had heard once that it's a vice
To leave the crevices empty,
And so he filled them and found them
Fattened and lustrous and self-secure,
Straying no longer, for want or need,
Finding it all within his solid frame.
...
I remember, too,
A young girl finding the holes in her eyes
And the space that flowed from teeth to throat
And the belly gap inside her.
She didn't like the mirror much
And found a certain hideousness
In the glass' mocking reply.
Instead she busied herself
With the study of the spaces in things:
Small spots for souls in bodies,
Large plots where yearning dwells.
She knew the particular sanctity
Of never finding all you want:
Eyes left searching find more certainly
That which few will look for-
The gentle balance of void and substance
That leaves the surest souls to be
The ones that keep on probing
Beyond the folds of their own matter.
A certain searching virtue
Is the side effect of lack.
