And I Was Obscurely Disappointed

A plan need not be put in words.
A poem need not be planned.
The future’s not a feature of speech,
Which is nothing to its future.

Everything is a sign of something,
But that something is deeply hidden,
Or everything is the sign for nothing,
Which waits to welcome everything.

In a fine hour for scenery,
Solitude is good company.
In good company, it’s rare
To understand the scenery.

On a summery morning, the poet
Traces lingering shadows in the sun.
When the world sinks into shadows,
The poet will pick out spots of light.

We know blood is the only way to grease
The axis of humanity. We don’t
Choose to disagree. We disagree
To clot the wounds and slow the spinning.

Civilization craves its victims.
Bodily lust and greed help get them.
But the bodies also want some peace,
Which selects for promissory beliefs.

The quietist and the hermit snooze
As much and as comfortably as we can.
We try to ignore the news, the flies,
The bloodsuckers, the mythologies.

Our plan is to wait outside the plan.
We understand fairytales begin
By repetition of the same old thing
And end in the same old delusions.

Cecilia Böhl de Faber was
The only writer ever who knew how
To end a fairy tale, with her narrator
Confessing obscure disappointment.