The first thing a thing
is is a question. One wakes
already in the midst
of things and must go
questing after
the unfolding the being
of each thing successively
presents. What could be further
from mundane than
the forbearance of things? I ask
the light what it
is and it replies
like a mountain, silently
exhuming metaphor from
its path like a gnat. And yet
there remains a thing
to which light is still
beholden. Originary holder, huge
and insoluble all
at once. Give up? Air is our
greatest teacher. Its entire
being consists
in allowances, letting the others
emanate. Only the air is more
humble than mountains. It’s so
tough it hugs all day long.
And yet perhaps
this questing is at the heart
of the problem. Man
turns the cadences
of this sensuous expanse
into things of thought. Surely
the light goes on without
the fiddling of neurons. No one
would claim to know
the mountain more clearly or
even the mystery a tree
brings to our eyes, which allows
the air a voice in quaking.
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