Under the bank of fountains in the cavern between the rounded steps some man is—what can I say— showing himself to us? The funny way we say it: exposing himself, as if he were a strip of film. I had been staring into the distance and drew up startled. A sign beneath the stone pediments. The perch of meaning. One interjection. One more dying argument. How many bodies are piled on a field, or a bed, before a language curls like a million fernheads? How many turnings, how much urgent mayhem to make a culture?
Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 12 Sep 2026 3:49 AM | Viewed: 3868 times
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Lee Upton
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